Even Unto the Seventh Generation
by AnneNevilleReviews
Summary: "Scorpius resembled Draco as much as Albus resembled Harry"-DH, 756. As the children of the leading figures of the last Wizarding War enter their first year at Hogwarts, they struggle to come to terms with their identities in relationship to their famous or notorious parents. At the same time, a shocking political shift forces wizards everywhere to reconsider their beliefs.
1. Prologue: Fathers and Sons

**Even Unto the Seventh Generation**

"[Scorpius] resembled Draco as much as Albus resembled Harry." - _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_, 756.

**Prologue**

Nestled against the window of an empty train compartment, an unremarkable-looking boy sat curled up with a heavy book. His dirty-blond hair fell over his forehead and his eyes were cast in shadow as he turned the book towards the window. He rubbed his freckled nose absent-mindedly. The fine, elaborate script and complicated diagrams which covered the pages were not easy to decipher, especially in dim light. Outside the window, he could hear the hubbub of students and parents laughing, crying, and saying goodbye before their journey on the Hogwarts Express.

He hadn't wanted to be a part of all that chaos: the noise, the crowd, and the exuberant greetings of friends who probably hadn't even written to each other all summer were overwhelming. Instead, he'd shaken his dad's hand and kissed his mum's cheek as fast as he could, then dragged his trunk onto the train to find a quiet corner to himself. So far, he'd succeeded. As the other children passed his compartment, most looked him over with disinterest and passed on, searching for their friends. When one or two had hesitated at the door, he'd given them a stoney look and pointedly raised his book even higher.

_I might just pull it off_, he thought, noticing that the crowd on the platform was gradually dissipating. _I might just get all the way to Hogwarts without having to talk to anyone_. He pushed away the thought that once he arrived, he'd have to face all the others. If nothing else, he could still have a few hours to himself.

Suddenly, a knock at the compartment door interrupted his thoughts. Irritated, the boy narrowed his blue eyes and looked up, hoping that the glare would discourage whoever it was that wanted to come in. Then, he lowered the book and smiled slightly. On the other side of the glass door stood a robust, barrel-chested boy with a dark-blond mop of hair.

"Hullo again!" the other boy called out, grinning. "May I come in? I don't know anyone else here, and the compartments are almost full-up."

The boy with the book nodded, and within moments the second soon-to-be-student had tumbled into the compartment, heaving his trunk into the overhead rack. "Good to see you again!" he exclaimed. "Pop and I would have been lost in Diagon Alley without you. And that ice-cream was fantastic. Pop wants to go back, but he can't find the entrance again. Thank you," he added with a laugh. Impulsively, he stuck out his hand to his new ally in the wizarding world.

"You're welcome, Hal," said the first boy, closing his book but leaving a finger between the pages to mark his place. After a brief hesitation, he shook the boy's hand.

Suddenly, he was glad his dad had approached Hal's father during their shopping trip, though at the time he'd been embarrassed. However, soon enough the boys had been wandering from shop to shop and chatting like old friends. Most of their conversation revolved around an endless series of questions from the bigger boy. Hal had strange ideas about Hogwarts that probably came from being a Muggle. Some of Hal's fears had been easy to allay.

"No, there are no flying staircases. They just move around a lot."

"No, quicksand in the hallways is just a rumor. Where did you come up with _that_ idea?"

"No, detention doesn't involve having your fingernails pulled out or getting chained in a dungeon. Not anymore, anyway."

Other questions had been harder to answer. When their fathers walked out of earshot, Hal had leaned forward and whispered, "What about the war? Is it really over?"

"How do you know about that?" the blond boy demanded, turning to look at his companion sharply.

"Um. Well, I have some family that . . . uh . . . got involved." Hal hesitated. "I don't want to fight," he added more quietly.

"The war is over. But I hear students duel in the hallways, so we'll probably have to fight sometimes."

Hal could tell that his new friend hadn't liked that line of questioning, so he asked about Hogwarts' four houses instead. The answer he received was detailed, even well-rehearsed. He learned that his name would be called in the Great Hall just before the welcome feast, that he'd sit on a stool, and that a grubby old hat would be put on his head. It would read his mind and send him to the house that suited his character best. Hal's forehead creased a little as he thought this through.

Finally he asked, "But which house is the best? If you're put in one based on your character and abilities, then some houses must be better than others, right? What happens if you get into a bad one?"

Alarmed, the freckled boy glanced ahead at their fathers. He pushed his hair off his forehead and whispered vehemently, "All the houses are equal. Anyone who tells you different is a liar. Don't believe them. 'Cause people will tell you that your whole future is based on that stupid hat's decision. And they will judge you based on it."

They walked in silence for some time after that. Then, suddenly, the skinny boy grabbed Hal's arm, pulling him into an alcove near Flourish and Blotts, which their fathers had just entered.

"There's something else you have to know, Hal. All the houses are equal, but not all wizards are. Some are better than others. Some are evil, some are rotten to the core," he said urgently.

"But . . . w-w-we're just kids. How can any of us be e-e-evil already?" Hal sputtered.

"My father says that some wizards are the right kind, and some are _wrong._ It's a blood-sickness. You have to choose your friends carefully. Stay away from the wrong kind."

The two children stared at each other for a few long seconds, then the smaller boy looked away. "Tell my dad to pick up my books for me. I am going to go buy my wand now."

"You don't want him to come?"

"No."

"Will I see you later today?"

"No. We're almost done with our shopping."

"Oh." Hal hesitated. "So, I'll see you on the train?"

The other boy shrugged and quickly walked away. He'd made a fool of himself. He'd been rude. He'd probably lost his first friend. Well, at least his embarrassment gave him an excuse to pick out his wand in private, he reflected as he jingled the Galleons and Sickles in his pocket. He didn't want his dad watching, just in case the wand that picked him didn't have a unicorn hair core. Worse, he _really_ didn't want his father to be there if no wand picked him at all.

Now, a week later in the cozy compartment on the Hogwarts Express, it seemed that Hal was ready to forgive him for his behavior in Diagon Alley. As the train pulled away, the boy relaxed a bit, closed his book, and prepared to be regaled by Hal, who had doubtless come up with a dozen new questions and wild theories about Hogwarts and the wizarding world. The urgency of Hal's first question took him aback, though.

"Before we say anything else," he said, flopping down on the opposite bench, "I _have_ to know something. Who reads our names out during the Sorting Ceremony?"

"Huh? What does that matter?"

"I have to know! I have to know before the Sorting."

"Why?"

Hal hesitated. "It's just that . . . my real name is kind of embarrassing. You know? I don't want everyone in the school to know it."

His companion nodded. "In my dad's days at Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall greeted the first years after they crossed the lake. Now that she's headmistress, I think Professor Longbottom does it."

The sound of the compartment door opening interrupted the boys' conversation. Framed in the doorway was a girl with a heart-shaped face and bobbed black hair tucked behind her ears. She looked from one boy to the other uncertainly.

"Hi," she said. The boys looked at each other, then back at the intruder. "We got lost on the way to King's Cross, and I almost missed the train," she explained. "I'll have to share your compartment. There's nowhere else left."

Hal nodded vigorously, though he couldn't think of anything to say. Instead, he helped the girl put her trunk away. The other boy stayed seated, staring and clutching his book. The girl sat down across from Hal, thanking him.

"No problem. My name is Hal. Hal Dursley." He paused, then threw out yet another of his never-ending questions. "You talk funny. Where are you from?"

"New York City. My name is Kiera Lestrange. It's a pleasure to meet you—"

The skinny boy with the book had suddenly stood up, his eyes wider than before. "I—" he started to say.

"—both," Kiera finished, rather lamely.

"I—have to go to the loo!" the freckled boy stammered, looking around frantically. He pushed his way past Kiera and Hal into the corridor. Hal ran after him.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "Do you think you're going to get girl-cooties or something?"

"You don't understand."

"I understand you're being lame. Are you going to leave us alone?"

Taking a deep breath and looking up at his friend, the smaller boy softly retorted, "Remember what I said about the right kind and wrong kind of wizard?"

"Yes, I do. I thought you were bonkers then, and I think you are bonkers now."

"Then maybe _I'm _the wrong kind of wizard."

Hal stuck his chin out and pressed his lips together, looking more stubborn and unyielding than he ever had before. "Yeah, maybe you are."

"I'll come back for my stuff later," the first boy said, turning on his heels and heading towards the back of the train. As he passed compartment after full compartment, his heart sank. He'd wanted to spend at least some of the ride watching the glorious landscape as the train sped by. Now, he realized that he really had no choice. There was no where else to go.

That is how Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, the heir of one of the last pureblood families, spent his entire first trip on the Hogwarts Express locked inside a loo. _At least I have my book_, he told himself. As the hours passed and the light faded, he softly closed the tome, leaned back, and shut his eyes. With the Hogwarts Express surging ever closer to the Sorting Hat, he repeated to himself over and over the phrase that had become his mantra:

_I am nothing like my father. I am nothing like my father. I am nothing like my father._

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Constructive criticism is welcome and wanted. I would be glad to return the favor with concrit in the future.


	2. Chapter One: Outsiders

**Even ****Unto ****the ****Seventh ****Generation**

"[Scorpius] resembled Draco as much as Albus resembled Harry."

_Harry __Potter __and __the __Deathly __Hallows_, 756.

**Chapter ****One**

_I __am __nothing __like __my __father_, Albus Severus Potter thought as he rode on the Hogwarts Express. He was fighting the urge to chew on his new wand like he did his quills. He always did that when he got stressed, and he often ended up with a mouth full of ink. It was hard to resist, especially now that he had James's taunt running through his head. What if he, Albus Potter, actually _did_ get sorted into Slytherin? Every single person in his family had been in Gryffindor. All his older cousins were Gryffindors. Yet, in the back of his mind, Albus knew that he didn't quite fit in with the rest.

Albus followed this line of thought a bit farther. If he wasn't a Gryffindor like his parents, then he probably _would _be sorted into Slytherin. Hadn't Dad told him that the Sorting Hat had considered putting him in both those houses? Hadn't he said that one of the men Albus had been named after had been the Head of Slytherin? Most of all, wasn't it obvious to everyone who looked at the Potter family which one of them didn't really belong?

James Sirius Potter was the spitting image of their father. With his black hair, compact frame, and wire-rimmed glasses, James was recognized as the son of the Boy Who Lived wherever the family went. Spitefully, Albus muttered to himself, "And he doesn't even _need_ his eyes fixed!," kicking violently at the thought.

"Ouch! _Albus_! Watch what you're doing!" cried Rose, who glared at him through her messy curls and rubbed her shin. "That's going to leave a bruise."

"I wasn't paying attention."

"Obviously," Rose grunted, turning away from him with a frown.

Albus returned to his musings. Yes, James was _very_ like their father, despite his blue eyes. So was Lily, though since she was only nine and a girl it was harder to tell how strong the resemblance would be when she grew up. Albus, on the other hand, took after the Weasley side of the family. Tall and lanky for his age, Albus had red hair and was covered with freckles. No matter how many times his mum told him he'd inherited his dad's eyes, it didn't make Albus feel like he belonged. No one noticed his eyes after they'd seen his hair. How many times had strangers approached the Potters in Diagon Alley and asked whether Albus was James's cousin?

Too many times to count, he decided. And now he was _going_ to get sorted into Slytherin, which was a very bad thing. No matter how fair-minded his parents tried to be, Albus had read enough history to know how many dark wizards had emerged from the dungeons of Hogwarts. Plus, his Uncle Ron never refrained from expressing his disdain for Slytherins, even while Aunt Hermione pursed her lips in disapproval and spoke of tolerance. Albus wondered why the house wasn't simply abolished.

"It's going to be an _major_ scandal when it comes out," came an authoritative voice from his left. Suddenly, Albus tuned into the conversation going on around him. For an instant, he feared that the comment was a response to the possibility of a Potter-Weasley being sorted into Slytherin.

"What is, Molly?" drawled Louis as he lounged across the aisle, his feet propped up on the opposite bench.

"I can't tell you," Molly smirked. "It's a Ministry _secret._ But when you find out, you'll understand. The whole wizarding world is going to be stunned."

Rose interrupted, "Oh, come on. You don't know anything. You were eavesdropping on Uncle Percy, as usual, and now you've made up a story just to sound important."

"Eavesdropping is really rude," contributed Roxanne. The others ignored her.

"Anyway, we all know that Uncle Percy was probably droning on and on about major _candles_, not major _scandals,_" added Louis, examining his shirt for stray crumbs and brushing them onto the floor.

"My dad's an important man," huffed Molly, "and when the news comes out, I'm going to be the one saying 'I told you so!'"

"No, you're not," said Rose with finality, "because you haven't _told_ us anything. Now everyone put on your robes. We're almost there."

Molly looked as if she'd like to kick Rose in the other shin. "How can you know?"

"Simple: It's almost dinner time, and it's getting dark. We all know about the first-years' night-time boat trip across the lake _and_ about the sorting ceremony just before the feast. Therefore, we must be arriving soon. It's only logical. Right, Albus?"

"Right," he said, climbing onto the bench to retrieve his new robes from his carefully-packed trunk. He felt his heart pounding as he saw his cousins stuffing leftover candy in their pockets, putting away their new chocolate frog cards, and carefully (or carelessly, in Louis's case) putting their wands in their robe pockets. Albus was struggling. Having plunged his right arm into one sleeve, he couldn't find the other. _It just isn't my day_, Albus thought, as he flailed around for the left armhole. Then he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Here, let me help," came Roxanne's soft voice from behind him. She helped Albus find his sleeve, then gave his shoulder a squeeze. He looked over at her and smiled.

Roxanne, too, was an outsider in her own family. The younger daughter of Uncle George and Aunt Angelina, she had an aversion to practical jokes and explosions. Her brother Fred—who spent many an hour hanging out with James—was gleeful and reckless whenever he got his hands on a new, experimental product for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Perhaps that was why Roxanne spent so much time in the local Muggle library, her dark eyes focused intently on textbooks about grammar and mathematics. Albus suspected that Roxanne's deepest wish had been to be allowed to attend the local Muggle school.

Shrugging the rest of the way into his robe and carefully fastening it, Albus tucked his still-unchewed wand into his pocket. He looked at the other children in the compartment, wondering at how many of them there were. Just this year, there were five first-years from the Potter-Weasley clan: Albus, Rose, Roxanne, Louis, and Molly. Every one of them, except for Rose, had red or strawberry-blond hair. Every one of them had grown up together. And now, every one of them expected to be sharing the same classrooms, the same dorms, and the same house for the next seven years. How could Gryffindor support so many Weasleys?

Once again seated across from Albus, Rose seemed to be thinking the same thing. She leaned forward, grabbed his hand, and whispered, "Please, Albus—tell the hat to put you in Gryffindor. It will listen. I _need_ you."

Albus smiled at her. "Rose, you don't need anyone. You always know what to do."

"No, I don't. I don't know how I'm going to handle the classes without your help. I'm not smart like Mum."

"Rose, don't be silly—"

"Dad expects me to be as good as my mum in classes," Rose insisted, "He wants me to beat everyone. But I can't. Not without you."

"Uncle Ron says you got Aunt Hermione's brains. I heard him say so just this morning!"

"Well, then I guess he sees me through rose-colored glasses," she sighed. Louis and Molly, who had overheard the exchange, started giggling. Rose blushed, then threw them a scathing look that only increased their mirth. For a moment, Albus feared that their first night at Hogwarts was going to begin with a brawl. Then, the train jerked to a stop. All was forgotten as the cousins began to tumble into the corridor, each talking over the other.

As their excited voices echoed behind him, Albus stood at the compartment door and looked back in. It was so tiny and empty now. His long legs were sore from sitting so close together for so many hours. Albus doubted that all five of them would fit into one compartment by Christmas. But by then he'd probably be an outcast anyway. He'd probably be a Slytherin—an enemy in his own family, no matter what his dad had said—and stuck for the next seven years with the children of people that his parents, his aunts, his uncles, and his grandparents had fought and hated nineteen years before.

Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, Albus Potter thought, _I wish I was more like my father_. _Why can't I be like my dad? _With a sigh, he turned towards the exit.

**DISCLAIMER:** The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—is warmly welcomed.


	3. Chapter Two: Crossing Over

**Even Unto the Seventh Generation**

**Chapter Two: Crossing Over**

Scorpius stayed inside the loo until the train was empty. Slipping back into his compartment, he gently placed the book inside his trunk. It was rare and very old, and if he dropped it in the lake, his father wouldn't be able to replace it. He put his robes on as fast as he could, then gingerly took his wand from its box and put it in his right pocket. Maybe if he hurried, he could catch up with the rest of the first-years before the boats sailed. After missing the view from train, he would hate to lose his first glimpse of Hogwarts, too.

Stepping onto the platform, Scorpius heard a hearty voice from somewhere in the distance: "Firs' years! Firs' years—follow me! Any more firs' years coming?" Scorpius rushed towards the voice, stumbling in the dark down the steep and rocky path. Once he nearly tripped, but he caught himself by grabbing a sapling. Wincing at the scrape on his hand, he picked his way more carefully down the hill. Then, his breath caught: the trees parted, and he saw before him the vast, dark waters of a lake. Beyond loomed a massive cliff surmounted by a castle, its turrets glowing with torchlights and candles. It looked welcoming. It looked like _home._

At the edge of the lake were almost forty children, most of them already seated in a fleet of small boats. They, too, were awed into silence by the view before them. A giant man with a tumble of salt-and-pepper hair loomed over them. Though his back was turned, he seemed to sense Scorpius's quiet approach.

"Ah, looks ter be a straggler. Mind yeh get ter class on time, or yeh'll be in detention before yeh know it!" he called over his shoulder. Scorpius shivered at the thought. Then, the giant—Hagrid was his name—turned. His beard was just as bushy as his hair. In Hagrid's arms was a slight, brown-haired boy, his face luminous. He didn't look injured, but Scorpius couldn't imagine any other reason that the giant would be carrying him down to the boat.

"There, there, Caleb," Hagrid said, setting the boy on a bench. "It's a smooth crossing and I'll be waiting for yeh on t'other side."

Now, only one boat remained. It already had three occupants. Scorpius climbed in with less grace than he'd have liked, then looked from face to face. These were his future classmates—or even his future housemates. Across from him sat what were doubtless twins, though they were similar only in their round faces, pointed chins, and roly-poly builds. The boy on the left was all one shade of brown: his eyes, hair, and tanned skin seemed to blend together behind his spectacles. A very furry kitten gamboled on his lap. The boy didn't seem to notice that his robe was encrusted with fur. The other twin was white-blond with bright blue eyes and a very sunburned face. There was something wistful in his expression.

Then, suddenly, the boat lurched forward. They were on their way.

"I wonder how many creatures live in this lake!" said the spectacled kid, trailing his fingers in the water. "I already know about the Giant Squid, and the Merpeople, and the grindilows. Perhaps there are Aquavirus Maggots, too? I hope so."

"Yuck. Lysander, can you leave off all that stuff? Just for tonight? We've finally got a real home. I want to enjoy it."

"I wonder if any moon frogs made it to the Great Lake?" his brother continued, as if he hadn't heard a thing. "What a find that will be! Just wait 'til Mum hears about it. If we could find just _one_ specimen, we'd finally have _proof._ Just think of the research trips we could take then! And the conferences!"

"I'd rather think of staying in one place for more than six months."

"Lorcan, don't be so _boring._"

Scorpius looked at the girl on his right. She was plain and thin-lipped, with thick black hair and an unflattering fringe. Eyes crossed and slightly unfocused, she gazed silently at the water. She didn't seem to notice her seat-mate at all. _No point in interrupting her_, Scorpius concluded, wondering what she thought she saw out there. All he saw were waves and swaying trees in the distance.

Suddenly, a strong gust of wind rushed over the water. Scorpius shivered, thrusting his hands in his pockets. In the right one was his wand, just where he had left it. In the other one, he felt a folded parchment. Pulling it out, he recognized the Malfoy family seal. He turned away from his companions and examined the letter. _From father_, he thought. The moon was bright, so he opened it stealthily and read:

_Dearest Scorpius,_

_Remember this, above all else, as you begin your education: Do not shame our family. Do not disgrace the Malfoy name._

_As my only heir, it is your duty to return us to what we once were. You are my pride and joy. I know you can do it._

_Your __Affectionate Father,_

_Draco Malfoy_

When Scorpius put the letter back in his pocket, it seemed much heavier than before.

Before he could look up again, Lorcan and Lysander gasped. Just in time, he realized that the boat was passing through an opening in the face of the cliff. The hanging ivy brushed his face even as he threw up his arms to protect it. Then, the words of the blond boy caught Scorpius's attention again.

"There, Lysander. You can't say this is any less magnificent than what we saw on our travels. It's even better than Transylvania!"

"You have been to Transylvania?" demanded the girl beside Scorpius, suddenly sizing up the twins with interest. "You speak Romanian?" There was a musical lilt to her voice which was surprisingly charming.

"Well, no," said Lorcan. "We weren't really there long enough. Studying dragons, not people," he shivered.

"But _I_ speak Russian, French, Spanish, Brazilian Portuguese, Tagalog, and American," volunteered Lysander. The girl grunted and turned back to the water, which was even blacker in the depths of the cavern.

Scorpius was glad when he felt the boat come aground. He was ready to get away from his unnerving companion. Lorcan and Lysander, whoever they were, weren't bad, though the boy with the glasses and the animal-obsession seemed a bit tiresome. The girl, however, with her strange eyes and her curiosity about Transylvania, was alarming. At least she hadn't asked about Albania.

As Scorpius disembarked and found himself surrounded by the other babbling children, he watched Hagrid carefully. The massive gamekeeper had picked Caleb up again, cradling him in his brawny arms. The boy's eyes shone and his lips were moving rapidly as he described the wonders of seeing Hogwarts from the lake, and how he'd never been been in a boat before for fear of drowning.

"Thar'l be no drownin' fer ye here, me boy," Hagrid smiled. "Now will ye do me a favor and knock three times on that there door. Ye see, I got me hands full."

Caleb raised a tiny fist and struck the wooden door until it swung open to reveal a tall, blue-robed witch with a stern mouth and her hair pulled back tightly. It was not who Scorpius expected to see. Where was Professor Longbottom? Surely, this stately figure was none other than Headmistress McGonagall. Beside her stood a dark-blonde girl with her hair in two braids. She was practically bouncing with excitement.

"You'll never _believe_ what has happened—" the girl blurted out.

"That is _enough_, Miss Longbottom. If you don't hold your tongue, I'll take ten points from whatever house you are sorted into, even if it _is_ Gryffindor." After that warning, Miss Longbottom kept quiet. Scorpius couldn't help feeling a little admiration for how the stately witch had wrought silence with so few words, and for how she captured the attention of forty children with such ease. He wished he had such power over people. It was certainly better than being invisible.

Headmistress McGonagall led the children from the mossy wooden door through the Entrance Hall, and from there into an anti-chamber. Hagrid trudged beside her, bearing Caleb in his arms. Once they entered the small room, he carefully deposited the small boy into a chair with silver wheels.

"What's that?" Scorpius asked, almost to himself.

"It's a wheelchair," answered a voice behind him. When he turned, he saw that Hal Dursley and Kiera Lestrange were hovering there. Perhaps Hal had decided to give him another chance to redeem himself. It was Kiera who had spoken.

"A veal-chair?" asked Scorpius, with confusion. In all the books with which his father had lined his room ("For your edification," he had stated), he'd never heard of a veal-chair. It sounded rather squishy and uncomfortable, and certainly bad for one's robes.

"No, a _wheel_-chair," Hal clarified. "It's for people who can't walk."

"Can't walk?" interrupted a long-limbed strawberry-blond boy with amber eyes who had somehow ended up near them. "If he can't walk, why didn't his parents _fix_ him?"

"Well," countered Kiera, "Maybe they don't think he's broken." She had a sharp edge in her voice.

Scorpius couldn't restrain himself. "But—but—someone like that doesn't belong at Hogwarts. Not here! It's not right!" he blurted out. As soon as he'd said the words, he knew he had blundered yet again. It didn't matter if he was thinking of the moving staircases and the vast distance between the Astronomy tower and the Potions dungeon. He'd read once about something called "three strikes and you're out"; now, with his foolish tongue, he'd struck out too many times. He'd certainly lost his only friend.

Hal had turned on him. "You know, _Malfoy_," he said evenly, "I thought you were a good kinda bloke. You helped me when no one else would. But now I see you for what you are. You," he spat out, "Are a prat and a bigot."

"But—"

"Can it! That boy—whoever he is—is probably the bravest person I ever saw." His eyes narrowed. "I'm sure we _both_ know what house he'll be sorted into, and if I'm lucky enough to be there, too, I will carry him from the Astronomy tower to the Great Hall and back again every single day for the next seven years," he said, emphasizing the last part of the sentence.

A girl with bouncy brown curls butted into the conversation. "That shouldn't be necessary," she declared. "We're at Hogwarts, after all. We've got magic on our side."

Flummoxed about what to do, Scorpius walked away and pushed towards the front of the crowd so he could hear Professor McGonagall better. She had already explained the Sorting Hat, the point system, and how the house cup worked. Now, she looked ready to lead the students from the ante-chamber.

"Where is Professor Longbottom, Headmistress?" cried out a voice behind Scorpius.

"Waiting in the Great Hall with the rest of the faculty, I should imagine," replied McGonagall. "And I am no longer Headmistress. I have stepped down."

Scorpius could hear a collective gasp. His own breath caught.

"From now on," McGonagall continued, her lips pressed thin, "I am once again the Transfiguration professor and Head of Gryffindor. You will find that there have been many changes at Hogwarts this year," she added.

A low murmur came from the students. Prof. McGonagall cut it short. "Form a line," she commanded, "and join me for the sorting." As she began to leave the room, Scorpius saw Hal run up to her and speak to her urgently. Although at first McGonagall tensed at Hal's temerity, she soon softened. Scorpius was certain that no matter how embarrassing Hal's real name was, it wouldn't be revealed by her.

He entered the Great Hall feeling even lower than he had before. Nausea threatened to overcome him. He was a prat. He was a coward. Probably, he was a bully—just like his dad. Certainly he'd never be able to restore his family's honor.

Scorpius crushed the letter in his pocket as the doors to the Great Hall opened. Before him, he saw only blackness.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER:** The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS****: **Many thanks to my beta, ladyoftheknightley.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.


	4. Chapter Three: The Sorting

**Even Unto the Seventh Generation**

**Chapter Three: The Sorting**

Albus walked into the Great Hall, his heart pounding. Above his head, the enchanted ceiling revealed the night sky: a few stars twinkling through drifting storm-clouds. He hadn't noticed them while they were crossing the lake. A thunderstorm must have gathered as they were waiting in the ante-chamber. _Not a good omen_, he thought. _If I believed in omens, which I certainly do not_, Albus amended.

He was conscious of two things: the crowd of students at the four long tables, and the pedestal where his new teachers sat. Strangely, the central seat—the one the new headmaster or headmistress should be occupying—was empty. Back at the Gryffindor table, James and Fred were laughing and poking each other with forks. Then, the older students became aware of the first years' arrival. James turned, craning his head. When he met Albus's eyes, there was a smirk on his bespectacled face. James's lips moved as he silently mouthed a single word: "Slytherin."

Albus flinched and glanced towards the other side of the room. Under silver and green banners sat the members of the rival house. Somehow, the Slytherins looked twice as big as all the other students. Twice as big, and twice as mean.

"No!" said Albus, not realizing he'd spoken aloud until his peers glanced his way. _Not Slytherin_, he finished in his head. Then, he felt someone take his hand. It was Rose. Her grasp was warm and reassuring. She smiled up at him, and Albus relaxed.

"Your hand's all clammy," she observed.

"I know."

"Just ask the hat. Ask the hat for Gryffindor." Now, Rose's expression was different: it was imploring. Albus shuffled uncomfortably and looked away, pretending to examine the other first years. On the boat, he'd been with his cousins, and in the ante-chamber, he'd been distracted. Now was his first chance to study the faces of his classmates. Some were still filing in, but others had entered before him.

The very first to go through the massive door to the Great Hall had been the boy in the wheelchair. A bit behind him was a slight, blond boy. _Who was he?_ Albus wondered. He looked familiar. A memory arose: Albus had seen him on platform nine and three-quarters, standing next to Draco Malfoy.

So _that_ was Draco Malfoy's son. This morning, he'd looked pale. Now, he looked positively green. An appropriate shade. Albus had heard enough about the Malfoy family from Uncle Ron and Louis to know trouble when he saw it. Albus could still remember the time he and James had stayed with Uncle Bill during the full moon: the livid scars raising on his Uncle's face, the pain that made tears spring to his eyes, Aunt Fleur's careful ministrations. Bloody steaks at dinnertime. It was no wonder that—after a lifetime of lunar cycles—even the languid Louis was enraged when he learned that Draco Malfoy let Fenrir Greyback into Hogwarts.

Albus hoped he wouldn't have to spend too much time with Scorpius Malfoy. He also hoped he'd never get caught in between Louis and Scorpius during a full moon—or any other time. Two more excellent reasons not to be sorted into Slytherin.

Albus also recognized Lorcan and Lysander Scamander, then his cousin Marie Delacour, the daughter of Aunt Fleur's sister. Her middle name was "Harriet"—yet another of the many children who had been named after his dad. Marie spent every summer with her aunt and uncle, though Albus didn't know her very well himself.

He didn't have time to seek out more familiar faces. As the door to the ante-chamber slammed behind him, Professor McGonagall set down the stool with the Sorting Hat. From everything James had said, Albus had expected to see a filthy old rag, but the Sorting Hat looked like it had been scoured. The new headmaster's work, perhaps?

Then, the hat began to sing:

_Oh, I'm the Sorting Hat, you see—  
A thousand years of age.  
Not known now for my beauty,  
Then was I all the rage.  
Conceived by the founding four,  
I was made with utmost care.  
Each chose from their own private stores,  
The ornaments I wear._

_Yes, Gryffindor, he handed in  
A shirt of finest stuff,  
Oft worn upon the battlefield.  
That's why I'm somewhat rough.  
Ravenclaw made my lining  
From her soft underdress,  
Which is why you may be finding  
My voice like a caress.  
Slytherin—why he donated  
The ribbon 'round my brim!  
A favor won while jousting,  
It was the pride of him.  
Hufflepuff put me together  
With a thread she spun herself.  
That's why I've held my shapely form  
For eons on a shelf._

_Oh, I know about your family trees,  
From root to branch of course.  
And those that are new to me,  
I'll send where I endorse._

_For years there's been fallacy,  
Believed by all of you,  
That Hufflepuff is hopeless,  
While Gryffindor is true;  
Ravenclaw has the brainy ones,  
And Slytherin trains the thugs.  
But thoughts like these can wound,  
You know, as surely as bedbugs._

_I've seen what those that made me  
Knew from the very start.  
As Dumbledore once told me,  
Who you are comes from the heart.  
The choices that will form you,  
Are shaped by your new house.  
If sorted without diligence,  
You could turn into a louse._

_When crafted by the founders,  
I received their special gifts.  
I have to use them wisely,  
To heal these age-old rifts.  
Endowed by one with brains I was,  
By another with a heart.  
The third gave me his confidence,  
The fourth—where do I start?  
He gave me the cunning  
To choose where you belong.  
Now wily wisdom tells me,  
A time for change has come along._

As the hat fell silent, Albus could hear a smattering of applause, mostly from the high table. Gradually, students joined in. There was a certain reservation in their response, as well as murmurs of discontent. Had the Sorting Hat just insulted them all?

McGonagall cleared her throat. "An excellent song, I am sure we all agree," she observed. After unrolling a parchment, she adjusted her glasses. "Now, the sorting begins. Bashir, Alexander!"

A dark boy stepped forward, sat, and placed the hat on his head. Soon after, the hat shouted "SLYTHERIN!" and the boy joined his new house.

"Blakeney, Percy!" A few students giggled, and Albus wondered why. He and his Weasley cousins looked at each other and shrugged.

"GRYFFINDOR!" Applause erupted from the other side of the room. Albus held his breath.

"Bones, Marius!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Bulstrode-Boot, Grace!" As a heavyset and ungainly girl walked to the stool, Albus couldn't help but think that her name was a cruel joke.

The hat was silent for a moment, before calling out "GRYFFINDOR!" The surprised expression on the Grace Bulstrode-Boot's face matched those on her new housemates'.

An elbow caught Albus in the ribs. "Don't forget to _breathe_, Albus!" Rose hissed. "You have to be _conscious_ to talk to the hat."

Albus rubbed his side. "Now _that's_ going to leave a bruise," he whispered back.

"Then we're even." She tossed her curls.

While he and Rose were distracted, they'd missed the names of two more students who had both been sent to Gryffindor. Now, a new girl was walking towards the stool. A shock went through Albus: she looked just like Molly, right down to the wavy red hair—though this girl was shorter and rounder.

"RAVENCLAW!" screamed the Sorting Hat.

"Who is she?" Albus asked.

"Couldn't hear," Rose responded. She looked unsettled as well.

A couple more names were called, and Albus was surprised when Marie Delacour was sent to Slytherin. He squirmed and reminded himself about breathing. He didn't fancy Rose breaking his ribs with her next blow.

McGonagall appeared to be bracing herself to read the next name. Looking back, Albus remembered _that_ as the moment when everything began to fall apart.

"Diggory," McGonagall pronounced, "Cedric the Second."

As a handsome boy with gray eyes walked forward confidently, Albus tried to remember why the name "Cedric Diggory" was so familiar. Of course! He'd been Voldemort's first victim after his return. His father witnessed Diggory's death during the Triwizard Tournament.

_This_ Cedric Diggory sat with the hat on his head for a long time before it finally placed him in Hufflepuff. His new house cheered, but as the boy took the Sorting Hat off, his face was troubled. Doris Dingle, a waif-like girl with huge eyes and a braid across her forehead, was sent to Slytherin. _Like a lamb going to slaughter._ Albus pitied her.

"Dursley, Hal"—another name that Albus couldn't quite place.

"RAVENCLAW!"

After a girl with dark hair and an upturned nose was sent to Hufflepuff, McGonagall read, "Gaunt, Artemisia."

The name meant nothing to Albus, but caused a stir among the teachers. A few students were also leaning forward with interest. The cross-eyed girl was dispatched to Slytherin.

Next, the Greengrass-Zabini twins were sent to different houses: Blake went to Slytherin, but Bianca was made a Gryffindor. Her sorting broke a long-standing tradition on both sides of their family. She received tepid applause from her new housemates, and the Sorting Hat was booed by Slytherin.

"Hush!" remonstrated McGonagall, moving on to the next student on her list.

The next student Albus took notice of was Caleb Keselman, who wheeled up to the foot of Gryffindor's table. The Potter-Weasley family house was filling up fast.

"Lestrange, Kiera!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

Again, Albus had the nagging sense that he'd fallen into a history book. He began to shift uncomfortably from side to side. He was impatient to get sorted so he could collapse somewhere—anywhere. Except Slytherin. Rose pulled her hand away and wiped her it on her robe.

"Malfoy, Scorpius!"

_This one should be quick_, Albus decided, as he watched the sick-looking boy walk to the stool. He was wrong. Seconds ticked by while Malfoy sat with the hat on his head, his hands clenched in his lap. Seconds turned to minutes, and Albus could hear the hiss of lowered voices echo throughout the Great Hall.

Finally, the hat shouted, "RAVENCLAW!"

When Malfoy removed the hat, his expression was unreadable. His new house didn't bother to applaud as he took his seat.

Albus stopped listening to the names. He knew he would be called soon, and began rehearsing his plea. Suddenly, he wondered what the correct form of address was for a magical item. "Oh, Most Magical One?" or "All-Knowing Hat?" or just "Please, Sir?"

Was the Sorting Hat a sir? Or a ma'am? Neither? Or—both?

"Potter, Albus!"

As he stepped away from the dwindling group of first-years, Albus could feel Rose's eyes on his back. He would just ask simply. Put me in Gryffindor. No, put me in Gryffindor, _please_.

But Albus never had a chance to think a single word. The moment the hat touched his head, it screamed, "RAVENCLAW!"

Ravenclaw!

Ravenclaw!

Albus stood. Gryffindor was silent. James looked stunned. Albus was vaguely aware that his new housemates were jumping and cheering. Probably, they were overjoyed to have a _Potter_ in their ranks. As he approached the table under blue and bronze banners, thoughts rushed through his mind:

_ At least it isn't Slytherin._

_ But it isn't Gryffindor, either._

_ Dad had a choice. He had a _choice _between the two._

_ I had no choice._

_ I _am_ nothing like my father._

Glancing behind him, he could see Rose's face: stricken, yet furious. Albus wanted to cry. He sat down. He felt hands slapping his shoulder and heard students greeting him. Across from him sat Scorpius Malfoy, who was staring intently at his plate. Albus did the same. He stopped listening to McGonagall until she got to the Weasleys, last on her list.

"Weasley, Louis!"

"That's LOUIE. It's French."

McGonagall raised an eyebrow, "It's French, _Professor_," she corrected. The hat put Louis in Gryffindor.

"Weasley, Molly."

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Weasley, Rose!"

"GRYFFINDOR!" Albus's heart sank.

"Weasley, Roxanne!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

Roxanne rushed up to the table and sat next to Albus. Her face was radiant.

"Just think, Al! No explosions!" she exclaimed. "I can finally read in peace!"

Then, Albus remembered all his books—how happy he had been whenever Aunt Hermione gave him her old course books and novels.

"I know _you'll_ appreciate these, Albus," she'd whisper, when Uncle Ron was too far away to hear.

Albus and Roxanne had read too many books, and now they were in Ravenclaw. Then again, at least he wasn't alone. As Roxanne chattered in his ear, Albus protested to himself: _I don't belong in this house_.

But the sorting was finished; there was no going back.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: **Many thanks to my beta, ladyoftheknightley.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.


	5. Chapter Four: The Feast

**Even Unto the Seventh Generation**

**Chapter Four: The Feast**

If Albus had bothered to look around the room, he might have noticed that he was far from the only student to question his house placement. Scorpius Malfoy, however, was listening intently. All around him, he heard dozens of discontented students speculating that the Sorting Hat had gone barmy with age.

As much as he wanted to, Scorpius knew he couldn't stare at his plate all night. Soon after Roxanne Weasley seated herself, Scorpius looked up at her. A brilliant smile on her face, she perched next to a lanky boy with green eyes. _Harry Potter's son_, Scorpius noted,_Albus. Albus Severus Potter_. Of course, Scorpius had known that they would be in the same year at Hogwarts since he'd been—he couldn't remember how old.

But he'd never thought they'd be in the same house. What would his father would say . . . ?

Albus and Roxanne were a study in opposites. The former was not at all what he had expected. He was pale, with red hair and a crooked front tooth. His masses of freckles put Scorpius's to shame. Indeed, the only part of Albus Potter that Scorpius recognized were his eyes. The boy seemed somber and restrained.

Meanwhile, Roxanne's brown eyes and deeply tanned skin contrasted starkly with her tight, red-brown curls. She was so exuberant that it looked like she could float with joy at any moment—up, up, and away, through the suspended candles and into the storm-clouds above. At first, Scorpius was concerned: it was not uncommon for magical children to levitate. _But then_, Scorpius reminded himself, _we are at Hogwarts. We have magic on our side_. If anything went wrong, the teachers would intervene.

The teachers! Scorpius's eyes flicked towards the High Table. There seemed to be so many of them—more than he'd expected. He tried to identify the ones who remained from his parents' days. At the far end was an imposing, dark woman with an aquiline nose and a telescope on a gold chain: Professor Sinistra, Astronomy. A round, graying woman with gold-rimmed glasses: Professor Vector, Arithmancy. Rubeus Hagrid, taking up at least two spots with his enormous bulk. Care of Magical Creatures.

Scorpius frowned. He had to even the score with _him_.

At the other end of the table lounged Professor Slughorn, just as dad described him: rotund, bald, nattily dressed, and wearing a self-satisfied expression on his moustached face. Although everyone had expected Slughorn to retire as soon as Lord Voldemort was defeated, he had remained at Hogwarts ever since. Dad called Slughorn a "man with a mission": after he'd fought to bring down Voldemort, he had dedicated himself—in his capacity as Potions Master and Head of Slytherin—to restoring the honor of his house. Almost twenty years later, Slughorn remained. He had his work cut out for him.

_To restore the honor of his house_. Scorpius's mission was not so different from Slughorn's. He only hoped that he'd have more success.

Fortunately, before he could dwell on his father's note, an elegant black woman rose from the High Table, waved her wand, and sent a flock of white doves into the crowd overhead. As the cooing birds settled on rafters, the students fell silent. Almost three hundred eyes turned to her.

"Good evening and welcome back," the woman began, her voice sonorous and clear. "In our Headmaster's absence, it has fallen to me to introduce the feast. But before we eat, I want to greet our newest students, who are beginning their studies in a year that is will bring many changes and challenges—both for you, and for Hogwarts as an institution."

Another low murmur began among the students. The woman cut it off with a wave of her hand.

"Of course," she smiled, after a pause, "it is not _my_ place to make political speeches. Instead, I suggest you enjoy the banquet!"

As mounds of food appeared on the table, Scorpius's stomach growled. The nausea had passed now that the sorting was over. Instead, he felt faint. After all, he _had_ spent all those hours on the Hogwarts Express in the loo, his carefully-packed sandwiches tucked away in the compartment with Hal and the Lestrange girl. He'd eaten nothing since breakfast. As he reached for a Cornish pasty, he heard the girl on his right ask the question that was going through his own mind.

"Who _was_ that woman?"

"Victoria Frobisher, professor of Charms," answered an older boy. "She's also the head of our house—or, I should say, co-head, along with Professor Li."

"A co-head? Isn't that unusual?" demanded another first-year through a mouth full of peas.

"Aye, I suppose so. Been that way ever since I've been here, though," the same boy answered. He started to lift a huge pile of mashed potatoes to his mouth, then dropped his fork with a clatter.

"Oooof!"

The boy narrowed his eyes at the girl sitting across from him. "My very _dear_ friend Eleanor is reminding me of my duties, though why she can't be bothered herself—"

"We both know you have a special interest here, Justin," Eleanor responded. She looked like she'd been cast in the same mould as Professor McGonagall.

"That I do, that I do," conceded Justin. "Well, my name is Justin Johnstone, and I'm a fifth year prefect. This," he gestured to the cool girl, "is the other—Eleanor MacDougal. Sorry, you'll have to put up with her—same as the rest of us."

As he reached for his mashed potatoes again, Eleanor raised an eyebrow.

"Alright, alright. Introductions it is. We'll begin with the wee lass at the end," he said, stabbing his fork at the plain-looking girl on Scorpius's left. Potato bits flew onto the table. "What're you called?"

"You know very well, Justin Johnstone. And don't call me a 'wee lass,' I don't like it!"

"My, my, this one has a temper!"

The girl pushed her hair behind one ear. "I don't know what I did to deserve living with _you_ for another three years," she declared.

The boy raised an eyebrow. "And what about family unity, Claire?"

"Tosh!" the girl exclaimed, then her face softened. "I'm Claire Johnstone, and that _troll_ is my brother," she said, gesturing in Justin's direction with a half-eaten drumstick.

The introductions continued. Scorpius tried to remember everyone's name: Roxanne was next, then Albus, Hal, Kiera, Lysander Scamander—still fur-covered, though his kitten had vanished, Charlotte Clearwater—short, with red hair, Asclepius Smethwyk—a black boy with big eyes, and Calliope Tinker, the girl who had asked who Professor Frobisher was. Then it was Scorpius's turn. As he opened his mouth, a soft, speculative voice cut him off.

"And you are Draco Malfoy's boy."

The source of the voice was a much older girl with several quills stuck through a tangle of dark hair. Her wide features were not unpleasant, but her expression as she looked down the long table made him uneasy.

"My name is Scorpius."

"Scorpius . . . Malfoy," she repeated.

"That's our Head Girl," Eleanor MacDougal said. "We're proud of our record—Ravenclaw has had either the Head Girl or Boy for the last five years—and we aim to for the next twenty."

"So the pressure is on all of you," said Justin. This time, he splattered soup as he gestured.

"Isolde has a keen eye for trouble," Eleanor warned. "So if you're planning to break curfew or sneak off somewhere, think again."

The Head Girl had still not averted her gaze.

"Eleanor is right," she finally said, turning away from Scorpius to survey the rest of the Ravenclaws curtly. "We can't afford misbehavior—not if we want to win the House Cup."

A number of students cheered, but Scorpius pushed his plate away. It was his first night at Hogwarts, and he'd already been labelled "Draco Malfoy's boy."

* * *

Albus spent the first part of the feast hacking at a slice of veal, irritated at the constant cooing of the doves. _A symbol of peace_. That's what Professor Frobisher must have had in mind when she conjured them. It was a pretty sentiment, but Albus was struggling to take it in. Certainly, he was not at peace with himself. He had marched into Hogwarts convinced that he would go in one of two directions: into Gryffindor, which would prove that he was his father's son, or into Slytherin, which would seal his fate as an outsider—the bad apple in the barrel.

It never occurred to him that there were other options. Either he lived up to his dad, or he didn't. Today was supposed to have been the moment of truth. Now, Albus was caught in between. It was intolerable.

Throughout dinner, Roxanne chattered with her new housemates. Of course, they both already knew Lysander Scamander through his parents, who sometimes visited during the brief periods they spent at Ottery St. Catchpole. Albus also recognized Asclepius Smethwyk, whom he'd seen around Diagon Alley. He was a half-blood, the grandson of Hippocrates Smethwyk. The entire family seemed dedicated to the healing profession. Already, Asclepius was going on and on about salves, potions, healing charms, and the dozens of times he'd visited St. Mungo's—both as a patient and an observer.

"I'll bet you didn't know there was a potion that can regrow bones from the inside out. Hurts like the devil, it does!"

Actually, Albus _had_ known that.

"I'll bet you didn't know that werewolves can be treated. You just need to drink a simple potion, taken around the full moon."

Albus knew that, too—and that the potion wasn't all that simple.

The muggle-born first-years were taken aback by the word "werewolves." Calliope and Hal gasped, and Kiera exclaimed that such a thing was impossible—unthinkable. The prefect who had introduced them leaned towards her, sloshing his pumpkin juice down his sleeve in the process.

"You'll find," he said ominously, "there are a great many creatures in the magical world that you've never heard of before: everything from werewolves, to trolls, to hippogriffs. Some of them are nice, and some of them could take your arm off with just . . . one . . . snap of their jaws."

Hal responded that he'd rather go the rest of his life without ever encountering any of those animals. Just as Albus was about to defend properly-treated werewolves (his father would have, of course), Scorpius Malfoy piped up.

"Werewolves aren't all bad," he said. "Some of them, in fact—"

"Some of them, in fact," Albus interrupted, piqued, "can prove pretty bloody useful. Can't they, Malfoy?"

Scorpius stared at him, slack-jawed. For some reason, his silence made Albus even angrier. What business did _Malfoy_ have in the same house as _Albus Potter_? How dare he to defend werewolves—when his kind used them as weapons? When they scarred innocent people for life? Albus remembered Louis shaking with sobs during that terrible night at Uncle Bill's. As Scorpius continued to gape, Albus delivered his final blow:

"Does your daddy keep one in your dungeons, in case he wants to invite a few _guests_ up here again?"

By now, their corner of the table had fallen silent. Roxanne turned to him, pulling on his robe. "Albus, that was mean. How could you say something like that?"

He brushed her hand away. He wouldn't back down. No matter how many blows he had had today, there was one thing he was sure of: He was never going to let Malfoy get away with murder—even if they _were_ in the same house. He was warm with satisfaction as he watched the other boy squirm. Albus had regained something in that exchange: the sense that he could fight, too—that he was, in fact, _brave._

Then, Roxanne gripped his wrist under the table, making him wince. So only he could hear, she whispered, "I'm so . . . so . . . disappointed, Albus." She had the beginning of tears in her eyes. "I never thought you were cruel. Never, never before today."

She let go then, and turned away, even though she was at the foot of the table and had nothing to look at but the doors to the Great Hall. From the other end of the table, Isolde's low-pitched voice drifted towards him. She'd been listening and watching—as eagle-eyed as Justin Johnstone had claimed.

"Potter," she said, "I know your family is all Gryffindor. Perhaps it's natural that you and your brother think a sharp tongue and a quick wand-hand make you strong. In Ravenclaw, we have quite a different attitude."

"And what is that?"

Her dark eyes studied his. "'Fools rush in,'" she answered. The quills quivered in her hair.

Albus helped himself to a piece of chocolate cake, but it didn't taste as good as he expected. Overhead, the infernal doves kept cooing, cooing, and across the table, Scorpius Malfoy sat and stared into his lap. He didn't speak for the rest of the meal.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: **Many thanks to my beta, ladyoftheknightley.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.


	6. Chapter Five: Enter the Headmaster

**Even Unto the Seventh Generation**

**Chapter Five: Enter the Headmaster**

"Well, I guess that we're not going to find out tonight," said a girl with short auburn hair who sat further up the table.

Albus tried to swallow the last of his chocolate cake. He was determined to finish every bite, even if it tasted lousy. Roxanne was watching him through her curls, but he wouldn't back down—not one bit. He wasn't sorry for what he'd said to Malfoy, and he wasn't going to make nice because of Roxanne. Or Isolde. Or anyone else in Ravenclaw. Maybe fools rush in, but bigger fools trust a snake in their midst.

"Well, he's gotta come soon," a second voice said. "What kind of headmaster misses the first day of school?"

_The new headmaster_. Suddenly, Albus remembered Molly's self-important voice back in that cramped compartment on the Hogwarts Express. She'd said that there was a major scandal brewing. Maybe she _had_ known something after all. Molly eavesdropped on her dad as often as she could, either with Extendable Ears or—more disgustingly—Earwigs, which could crawl under doors and hide beneath the furniture.

When Albus thought of Molly's unorthodox methods of being "in-the-know," he wasn't so surprised that she'd been sorted into Slytherin. She _was_ sneaky—but surely, she wasn't that bad. Was she? She was Albus's cousin, after all.

At that moment, the desserts and dirty plates vanished from the table. All around, people were rising. Professor McGonagall introduced the Hogwarts song, and the students started to sing. It wasn't like in Dumbledore's days, when chaos ruled and every student chose their own melody and tempo. Under the former headmistress, Hogwarts had returned to the original music. Hundreds of voices echoed through the Great Hall. The song created a beautiful illusion of unity, with only a few false notes—contributed by James and Fred, no doubt.

In the middle of the second verse, a silver streak burst through a wall and ran towards the High Table—a Patronus in the form of a wildcat. The students' voices dropped away until only James and Fred's remained. The Patronus hovered near McGonagall for a moment, then faded away.

She cleared her throat. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "The headmaster has arrived."

Albus's brother and cousin fell silent as the entire crowd turned to the Great Hall's massive doors. Slowly, they swung open. Footsteps echoed as a tall, indistinct figure flitted in and out of the candlelight in the Entrance Hall. A second man followed close behind.

Despite his tardiness, the headmaster maintained a dignified pace. Albus strained to see who it was.

"Oh, Merlin," whispered Justin.

"What's he doing here?"

"I knew it! I knew it!" said Hannah Longbottom from her spot at the Hufflepuff table.

"I don't believe it. It cannae be."

"Bloody hell!"

"He can't be Headmaster! He just . . . can't!"

"Is that really him?"

"I told you! I told you so!" Molly's voice was the loudest of all.

The students' exclamations overlapped, but Albus didn't know why they were so excited. Maybe he needed glasses after all. The new headmaster remained an indistinct blur until he reached the ancient wooden doors. Then, a stately, broad-shouldered man emerged from the shadows.

It was the Minister of Magic—Kingsley Shacklebolt himself. Behind him stood Harry Potter.

Every pair of eyes in the room followed Shacklebolt as he strode towards the High Table. Every pair, that is, save one. Albus watched his father, who lingered near the door.

_ His father had known!_ He had known about Headmistress McGonagall's ousting. He had known about Shacklebolt's defection to Hogwarts. He'd known all these things this very morning, when he'd sent Albus on his way. He had hidden the truth from Albus, when even Hannah Longbottom and the insufferable Molly were in on the secret.

Albus's finger nails dug into his palms. This morning, his dad had acted like any other parent sending his son to his first day of school, even though Hogwarts—no, the entire wizarding world!—was about to be turned upside down. Sure, his dad hadn't exactly _lied_ to him, but he had hidden the truth. Didn't Albus deserve a warning?

Suddenly, an unwelcome thought crossed Albus's mind: his dad didn't trust him. He could see his father scanning the tables. He looked first towards Gryffindor, then at Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and finally, Ravenclaw. For a moment, two pairs of green eyes met. A beat passed, and Albus turned away—only to look directly at Scorpius Malfoy.

Malfoy had seen it all. He had seen Harry Potter look for his son everywhere but Ravenclaw. He had seen the carefully-schooled blankness on his father's face. He had seen Albus's hurt. And worst of all, Albus thought he could see _sympathy_ in Malfoy's eyes—even after all the insults Albus had thrown at him only a few minutes before.

"What are you looking at?" Albus said. The last thing he wanted was Malfoy's pity.

"N-n-nothing," the other boy stammered, flushing.

Before Albus could think up a retort, a rich baritone rang out from the other side of the room. Shacklebolt had reached the High Table, shaken hands with McGonagall, and placed himself in front of the Headmaster's elaborate podium. He rested his large, sturdy hands on its edges and began to speak, not bothering to amplify his voice magically. It was rich and familiar.

"Greetings, students, colleagues, and—I hope—friends. I must apologize for my lateness, which was due to last minute business at the Ministry. You, children, are among the very first to learn of my decision to retire from politics." Shacklebolt said, his eyes crinkling. For the first time, Albus realized that the Minister's—no, the Headmaster's—hair, which he had grown during his nineteen years in office, was turning grey.

"It is appropriate, I believe," he continued, "that you should be the first. I have come to believe that _you_ are our future—and the Ministry is our past. Besides," Shacklebolt smiled, "I could use a quiet retirement."

Albus thought he could see Professor McGonagall mouthing the words "_Quiet retirement, indeed_!" If Shacklebolt could hear her, he gave no indication other than inclining his head. He glanced from table to table, studying the faces of his students.

"Obviously, this year will bring changes, some large, and some small. We will have new teachers, new classes, and new rules. Hopefully, we will also have a new harmony at Hogwarts.

"As for the rules, the Forbidden Forest is, as always, off-limits to students unless they are chaperoned by Professor Hagrid. In addition, Hogsmeade trips will be restricted to students in their fifth year and above." At this announcement, a rumble of discontent began throughout the room. The Headmaster lifted a hand, and his new charges fell silent again.

"Most essentially, _all_ students are forbidden from going within one hundred meters of the border of any unplottable regions. This means that you will not go near the edges of the Hogwarts campus and you will not approach the outskirts of Hogsmeade. If you should cross into these areas—even on campus—you must _not_ perform any kind of magic. I strongly advise you to follow these guidelines even when you are on break.

"Now that I have solidified my popularity with my new constituents," Shacklebolt said with an ironic smile, "I bid you goodnight. Rest well, for tomorrow will be a challenging day."

With these words, Shacklebolt stepped away from the podium, nodded to the faculty, and swept out of the room, with Harry trailing behind.

"Somehow," whispered Roxanne, her ire momentarily forgotten, "I doubt Headmaster Shacklebolt's password is going to be 'Lemon Drops.'" The auburn-haired third-year responded bitterly that Shacklebolt was much more likely to choose 'ball-and-chain.' She'd been looking forward to Hogsmeade.

* * *

Scorpius's mind raced as Justin Johnstone and Eleanor MacDougal led the first-years towards Ravenclaw Tower. He barely attended to their warnings about vanishing steps or the landmark portraits that would help him find his way back to the Great Hall from the dorm.

Of course, Scorpius was surprised by the new headmaster's identity. Not that he expected to know Ministry secrets. His father wasn't welcome there, and his grandma was circumspect whenever she returned. Hogwarts just didn't seem like an ideal place for retirement. After all, two of the last three headmasters had died violently.

He was less surprised by Headmaster Shacklebolt's edict that the students stay away from the outskirts of unplottable places. Grandma Narcissa had spent all summer warning Scorpius to avoid the perimeter of Malfoy Manor, control any strong emotions that might bring on a fit of accidental magic, and avoid any fool-hardy wand-waving lest he cast a spell or send off sparks.

Scorpius hadn't had the heart to tell her how unlikely that was to happen.

What _had_ shocked Scorpius was the hurt on Albus Potter's face when his father looked for his son everywhere but Ravenclaw. Nor could he believe the blankness on Harry Potter's face—unreadable and guarded. Did he question Albus's intelligence or studiousness? Or was Potter so prejudiced that he couldn't stomach the idea of his son being in any house but his own?

Scorpius pushed that idea away. It wasn't fair to assume. Instead, he imagined what it would have been like if his own dad had been the one standing there. Scorpius would have been able to read _his_ father's expression when he saw Scorpius with the Ravenclaws. _I must write home as soon as possible_, he told himself. He had to be the first to let his parents know. Plenty of the family's former colleagues had children who would be delighted to spread gossip about a non-Slytherin Malfoy.

First thing in the morning, he would get directions to the owlry and send a letter home.

Only when the prefects stopped their charges did Scorpius look up. They were amassed around the graceful curves of a spiral staircase. There was a bronze eagle on the door in front of them. Then, the knocker spoke what sounded like a brief, rhyming poem. Scorpius recognized it as a riddle—and not a very difficult one—but before he could answer it, Eleanor MacDougal did. The door swung open.

_It's for the best_, Scorpius told himself. _The last thing I need to do tonight is draw more attention to myself. _Indeed, his gut told him that the smartest thing for him to do was to listen to the prefects' instructions and go—as fast as he could—to bed. He could hide there, behind the heavy curtains of a four-poster, and think of a way to undo the damage he'd done.

At the moment, Eleanor was explaining the riddle-system of entering the Ravenclaw dorm and pointing out the way to the dormitory. Remembering the breathtaking view of candles in the tower that he'd glimpsed from the lake, Scorpius felt some of his anxiety drain away. This place was his home, and no matter how many mistakes he'd made, he had a chance to prove himself. To show the world that Scorpius Hyperion A—Well, that Scorpius could never be compared with his dad.

His father had failed. Scorpius would succeed.

* * *

Absorbed in examining the Ravenclaw common room, Albus didn't notice Malfoy creeping off. Instead, he listened to the speculation and gossip that reached a fever-pitch as soon as the prefects withdrew to their own corner near the fire.

What he wanted most of all was to confer with Roxanne, but his cousin had defected to a small table near a wall of towering bookcases. She was accompanied by Claire Johnstone and Charlotte Clearwater. The trio appeared to be engaged in a serious discussion. Albus wandered nearby, just close enough to hear Claire telling her new classmates all that she'd learned about Hogwarts from her "trollish" brother. Roxanne looked at her cousin, but didn't invite him to pull up a chair.

_Ouch_. After pretending to peruse the books, Albus walked away. His other classmates had already broken into groups. Calliope Tinker, her dark-skin, brown hair, and blue eyes illuminated by firelight, sat cross-legged near the hearth with a book in her lap. As Albus passed, he was surprised that instead of a spell-book, she was reading poetry. Lysander and Asclepius were arguing about the ethics of using magical animals for healing purposes. Hal Dursley, Kiera Lestrange, and the two third-year girls who'd been speculating about Headmaster Shacklebolt's tardiness were seated in armchairs and a couch that stood under a cracked statue of what must have been Rowena Ravenclaw.

Albus shivered at the reminder of the war that had almost destroyed Hogwarts.

"Hey! Hullo there," came a voice from the circle. "There's room here, um—" The mop-haired boy shook his head and suddenly seemed nervous. "Um—"

"Albus," whispered the girl sitting beside him.

"Oh, yeah. Albus. Have a seat?"

Albus sat. He looked at the two third-years—whom he had no doubt Hal had invited over, too—and waited for them to introduce themselves. By now everyone—except, it seemed, Hal Dursley—knew who Albus was without asking.

"Albus, meet Buffy Hawthorne," Kiera said, as the girl with the short, auburn hair inclined her head, "and Siobhan Byrne." The second girl smiled softly. Buffy commented dryly that at least this time, she wouldn't have to explain that she was _not_ another Weasley. She leaned back in her chair, one leg slung over its arm, and returned to their interrupted conversation. "Strange sorting this year, eh, Siobhan?"

"Mmm-hm. But me Mam will be pleased—Ethan being in Gryffindor, just like Killian." She spoke with a soft Irish accent as she twisted a lock of her hair around a finger.

"That's not what I meant. Everything's mixed up. Something's wrong with that infernal hat."

"Maybe something's right with it."

"Bollocks."

"Buffy!"

"Well, things just don't happen this way around here. There are certain _traditions_."

Once again, Albus's mind wandered. Of course it had been odd. Not only had he and Scorpius Malfoy been sorted into Ravenclaw, Molly and Marie were in Slytherin. That sweet-looking, freckled waif had been sent to Slytherin, too. Georgiana Goyle was in Hufflepuff, while Grace Bulstrode-Boot and Bianca Greengrass-Zabini were infiltrating Gryffindor. Places in Gryffindor that rightly belonged to him, or Roxanne, or even Molly. And what about that strange looking girl—Artemisia—whose had name had upset the faculty?

Albus felt a headache coming on. No wonder, after the day he'd had. Rubbing his temples, he excused himself. No doubt Hal Dursley—who had regained his cool—could entertain the rest of his companions. Albus could not. All he wanted was to climb into bed and sleep. In the morning, he would be able to think clearly. He'd find Rose and the rest of his cousins, and they'd talk things over. _Maybe it will be like old days_, he thought, as he climbed the spiral staircase.

All thoughts of returning to normalcy evaporated when he opened the door to the first-years' room. Someone had come up already. Someone he could hear breathing behind heavy bed curtains. Someone whose trunk—which looked about thirty years old—was emblazoned in green and silver and adorned with a dragon clasp.

It didn't take long for Albus to conclude that Scorpius Malfoy had pushed ahead of everyone else to claim the best bed in the room. Tucked into an alcove, it was the most private and secluded four-poster. Beside it was an enormous bay window, no doubt with a spectacular view of the lake and the mountains. Right under the window stood a sturdy desk, with quills, ink, and parchment carefully laid out.

_What a git. What a selfish, entitled little git_, Albus thought as he threw himself down on another bed. He didn't bother dragging his trunk over, nor did he take off his robes. Despite his pounding headache, he fell asleep.

It never occurred to Albus that—without a moment's hesitation—he'd taken the second-best bed in the room for himself.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: **Many thanks to my beta, ladyoftheknightley.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.


	7. Chapter Six: Dawn Breaks

**Even ****Unto ****the ****Seventh ****Generation**

**Chapter ****Six: ****Dawn Breaks**

A cool breeze ruffled Scorpius's hair as he stood outside the Owlery. He lingered there, listening to the drowsy birds inside.

Sending his letter—and staying out of everyone's way—had been foremost on his mind when he'd reached the dormitory the night before. He had sought out the most secluded spot in the room. The bed in the alcove was far from the fireplace, and because it was next to a large window, it was sure to be cold in the winter. _On the other hand_, he had reasoned, _I can disappear there_. Three stone walls surrounded the bed, so when he drew the curtains, he could seal himself away from the world.

But he had to do his duty first. As he watched the sun rise over the mountains, Scorpius remembered how carefully he'd unpacked his father's trunk, laying out his parchment, ink, and quills just the way he liked them. Scorpius tore up half a dozen drafts of his letter before he was satisfied:

_ Dear Mum and Dad,_

_ The Sorting Hat put me in Ravenclaw. I'll do my best to honor the Malfoy name._

_ Scorpius_

_ Sometimes, simplicity is the best option._The less he wrote, the better. Scorpius couldn't tell his father about the damage he'd already done. He couldn't write that the Head Girl distrusted him, and he couldn't say that Albus Potter hated him. As tears sprang to his eyes, Scorpius had heard a plaintive mew. Something was batting at his leg, trying to climb his robes. _Lysander Scamander's kitten, all alone in a strange place_. Thinking his housemate wouldn't appreciate Scorpius touching his pet, he detached the mewling creature and set it down.

It was a persistent little thing, however, and followed him around as he changed out of his robe. Soon after Scorpius had holed himself up in his new bed, the kitten climbed the bed-curtains, curled up above his head, and purred Scorpius to sleep. When Scorpius woke, he was alone again. Shivering, Scorpius had dressed, retrieved his letter from under his pillow, and snuck out of the room. None of the other boys stirred.

After asking various portraits the way to the Owlrey, Scorpius had stepped out of the castle into the dawning light. Usually, things looked better to him in the morning. Today, they didn't. _I might as well get this over with_, he thought. When he went into the Owlrey, he felt dozens of curious eyes turn to him. _Hooo, hooo_, cooed the birds. "Who, indeed?" he thought, looking around. Some of the owls were magnificent creatures—the gifts of indulgent parents. Others were scrawny and old. They were the poorer students'. None of them belonged to Scorpius.

"Would one of you carry a letter to Malfoy Manor?" The owls blinked sleepily. Morning was not as popular with them as it was with Scorpius. He held out a hand. "Please?"

Finally, one of the brown school owls flew to Scorpius, landing on his shoulder. It nibbled his hair as he tied the note to its feet. By the time the bird flew off into the sunrise, the rest of the brood had nodded off again. Suddenly, Scorpius realized his knees were shaking because he'd eaten so little the day before. How early could he eat? _Breakfast_,he thought, turning back to the castle's door, _before anyone else is awake_.

* * *

For once, fortune was kind. When Scorpius reached the Great Hall, it was almost empty. A few students sat at the house tables. Victoria Frobisher, his head-of-house, was the only teacher present. Best of all, on Sundays breakfast was more flexible than during weekdays. When Scorpius took his seat—the same one he'd picked the night before—a plate appeared before him. He ate fast, hoping to withdraw before his classmates trickled in. So far, his only companions were Caleb Keselman, surrounded by sleepy Gryffindor prefects, Artemisia Gaunt and another Slytherin girl, and a handful of older students, none of whom were familiar to him.

The truth was, Scorpius didn't know many children his age. Those that he did, he wished he didn't. For example, he knew his cousins, Blake and Bianca Greengrass-Zabini, well. Damocles Slughorn, with his perpetual squint and endless bluster, had occasionally entered the Malfoy's social circle, as had Patrick Parkinson, who was somehow related to one of his father's childhood . . . acquaintances. There was also Georgiana Goyle and Grace Bulstrode-Boot.

Only Blake and Bianca had visited the manor with any regularity. However, with so few callers, Astoria Malfoy took what support she could get. She loved Aunt Daphne, and Scorpius couldn't begrudge her that, no more than he could begrudge his father his library or the strange fits he sometimes had. Whenever possible, Scorpius spent Aunt Daphne's visits locked in his room, reading what Blake called his "ridiculous, pointless" novels.

_ If only Mum had taken me to Diagon Alley with her_, Scorpius thought, wistfully. _If only I'd been able to take part in the annual holiday Pageant, like the other wizards' children. If only I'd been invited to their birthday parties. If only_.. . Scorpius sipped his pumpkin juice. He knew that no effort on his mother's part could have healed the breech between the Malfoys and the rest of the wizarding world. They were on their own: Narcissa, Draco, Astoria, and Scorpius. The Malfoys versus the world. The righteous against the wrong-doers.

Someone's hand touched Scorpius's shoulder, startling him.

"I'm not going to bite," Professor Frobisher said. Examining his face, she frowned. "Why, Mr. Malfoy, you look like you've been attacked by an Amazonian Blood Leach!"

Scorpius forced a smile. "That bad?"

"That bad."

"Yeah, I guess so," Scorpius said, echoing the casual phrasing he'd heard from Hal. "I didn't sleep well."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Scorpius replied that he just wanted to finish eating and leave.

"I'm afraid that's not possible. Headmaster Shacklebolt wants us all to be present after breakfast. There is business to attend to. Is there anything else, Mr. Malfoy?"

He thought for a moment. "You . . . you . . ." He hesitated. "You could call me 'Scorpius' instead of 'Mr. Malfoy.'"

Professor Frobisher shook her head. "Against school policy. A fine genie I am turning out to be," she said. "Two out of three wishes gone, and I can't grant either. Shall we try once more?"

Scorpius looked down at his pumpkin juice and hesitated. Then, he decided to ask for one last, small thing.

"I'd really like a cup of—of—coffee," he whispered. He knew it was a pointless wish, of course. Things like coffee were not to be found at Hogwarts.

Surprise flitted across the professor's face. "Coffee?" she echoed. "Aren't you a little young for coffee?"

"Mum thinks so, but I drink it with Dad when she's not at home."

Professor Frobisher looked thoughtful, then her eyes twinkled. "Well, Mr. Malfoy, I am a genie after all. I will grant your three wishes—imperfectly. Come. We'll be back before the assembly."

Professor Frobisher ushered Scorpius into her office and invited him to sit. "In this room," she said, "I can call you whatever I like. You can be Scorpius, and I can—if you wish—be Victoria. Just between us, understood?"

He nodded. As he perched on the edge of his seat, she pulled a brown bag out of her desk drawer.

"My secret stash," Frobisher said. Scorpius noticed that although she used magic to heat the water, she prepared coffee the Muggle way, with grounds and a French press. As it steeped, Scorpius studied the room at the base of Ravenclaw Tower. The professor's desk was heavy, oak, and well-worn, like his father's. A thick blue and bronze carpet covered the floor. The walls were hung with tapestries and carpets embroidered in red and gold.

"They keep out the cold," Frobisher explained. "The breeze from the lake is brutal during the winter."

She pressed a mug into Scorpius's hand and took a seat across from him. He could see his reflection in the liquid. Pale, unremarkable face. A sprinkling of freckles on his nose. Dirty-blond hair that his mum thought might turn brown when he grew up. Dark blue eyes with darker blue circles beneath them. He _did _look like he'd had the life sucked out of him.

After a silence, Professor Frobisher spoke. "Do you like Quiddich?"

"No, Professor. I don't care for flying."

"Mmm," Professor Frobisher nodded, "When I was a student, I tried out for Keeper, but I turned down the position because it would take too much time from my studies. Your father was a good Seeker, as I recall. An excellent student, too. He had a way with words, as well as a prodigious talent for complicated spellwork. Most original." She looked thoughtful. "Of course, he was several years younger than me. I didn't know him well."

_ Always my father. _Scorpius watched the professor until she reminded him not to let his coffee get cold. He took another gulp.

"I wasn't here for the war," she continued, "I was studying Charms abroad. My parents' idea—and Professor Flitwick's. You can never learn too much."

Another pause. Finally, Professor Frobisher tried a different tactic to draw her student out. "Your grandmother is a hero," she observed, "Without her, defeating Voldemort would have been impossible."

Scorpius nearly dropped his mug.

"Are you surprised to hear me say that, Scorpius?"

"It's just—not many people remember that part of the story."

"I read the news—and the transcripts from the trials. Plus, I was lucky. Being far away may have given me a—different perspective. What will your family think of you being in Ravenclaw?"

Scorpius said he'd find out soon.

"The hat took a long time to decide what house to put you in. A lot of people would like to know what it had to say."

He looked away again. He didn't like the implied question, but was afraid to evade it. Finally, Scorpius murmured that what the Sorting Hat said to him was private.

"Of course it is. I won't press you. But I am worried for you—more than my other students. I worry about their reactions to you. I'm worried that you will feel out of place. And I am worried that you don't _want _to be here."

At that, Scorpius exclaimed that he had wanted to be in Ravenclaw for as long as he could remember.

"Well, that's one less thing for me to worry about," Professor Frobisher chuckled. "I wonder—will you be my next star pupil, Scorpius? I've had a lot of students over the years, and I can see a certain light in your eyes—when you actually look up, that is. You can learn a lot from people's eyes. If you have your father's brains and a bit of drive, it won't be out of your reach."

"No, Professor. I'm sorry, Professor. I mean, I'd like to. I just don't think I _can _be."

"Why not?"

"I like theory," he said cautiously, causing her to smile. "I like reading and writing, too. I've memorized entire books, and I think I'll do well on papers." Then, he decided to tell Victoria Frobisher part of the truth. "I just don't think I'm cut out to be a _real _wizard," he confessed.

Her eyes narrowed. "We'll see, Scorpius. Classes haven't started, so it's too soon to tell. I'll be keeping my eye on you, too." Seeing her charge start to close up again, she quickly added, "Don't worry, I can be objective. I know what it's like to be on the outside looking in."

He relaxed enough to drink some more of his coffee, which he was clutching in both hands. Then, her last words sunk in.

"How can you be an outsider, Professor?" he asked. "You're a teacher _and _the head of a house."

"Easily. Didn't you guess?" she asked, gesturing at her tapestries. "When I was a student, I was in Gryffindor."

Before Scorpius had time to digest this fact, his teacher told him to finish his coffee. "I have been your genie for as long as I can. Now, we'll go hear Shacklebolt's proclamations. Remember—my door is always open, and in this office you can be 'Scorpius.' Outside, you'll remain 'Mr. Malfoy.'

"After all, I wouldn't want to be accused of favoritism, as some others have been." Scorpius thought he saw the elegant woman wink as she led him away.

* * *

_Scorpius Malfoy can't even get through one night without causing trouble_.Though Albus had woken up late, he'd soon learned from his roommates that Malfoy had snuck out of the room before dawn.

"I was half-awake 'cause Widget was walking on my face," Lysander told them as he pulled on his robe, "I heard Malfoy go out."

In the spirit of investigation, Albus pushed back Malfoy's bed curtains. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. _Evidence, of course_. _But of what? _Then he saw Scorpius's pillow.

"If I were you, Lys, I'd watch out for your kitten. Look."

Lysander walked over. "So? His pillow's got fur on it. Cat hair gets everywhere."

"Malfoys aren't known for being kind to animals."

The boy's brown eyes widened behind his glasses. "You don't think he'd hurt Widget, do you?"

"Of course he wouldn't," said Hal, who had just finished just washing up.

"How would _you _know?" demanded Asclepius.

"Not the type. Not that I like him much right now. Think he's a downright judgmental git, but he wouldn't hurt a fly. Maybe someone's _feelings_, but that's different."

Albus asked how Hal could know anything about Scorpius Malfoy.

"I just know," he responded, then told the other boys about how the Malfoys had helped him and his dad in Diagon Alley—and how they'd told them all about how the wizarding world worked.

"Malfoys hanging out with Muggles?" exclaimed Albus. "Impossible."

Hal shrugged. "Maybe they were trying to be nice. Though Scorpius _did _say some strange things."

"Like what?"

"Like some wizards are better than others."

Lysander snorted, "Typical."

Albus furrowed his brow and wondered aloud why the Malfoys would be friendly to the Dursleys.

"Maybe they know about us," Hal suggested.

"Us?" Albus looked at Hal blankly, and the other boy turned red.

"About our dads."

"What are you talking about?" A note of irritation crept into Albus's voice. He was more interested in Malfoy than some stranger's father, whoever he was.

Hal stumbled as he missed one of his pant legs. He didn't say anything else.

"One thing Malfoy got right," Albus mused. "Some wizards _are _better than others. We'll need to be extra careful who we associate with since the sorting messed everything up."

Lysander agreed. He suggested that Hal stick with him and Albus to make sure he didn't go wrong. That's when the rest of the Ravenclaw boys saw Hal's stubborn side for the first time.

"Thanks for your concern," he said icily, "But I choose my own friends."

By the time Albus, Asclepius, and Lysander had made it downstairs, Hal was already talking with Kiera on one side and Buffy and Siobhan on the other. Roxanne, Claire, and Charlotte formed a tight knot next to them. Lysander and Asclepius were once again bickering.

As Albus took the seat next to Lysander, his eyes wandered to the Gryffidor table. Rose and Louis were sitting with Fred and James, away from the other first years. Louis, as usual, looked languid and faintly amused. He was acting unaware of the glances he was getting from the other girls and boys—even the older ones. For the first time, Albus wondered if his cousin had inherited some of his mother's Veela charm, even if it wasn't supposed to work that way. Rose was pressing her lips together, her hair flattened on one side like she had forgotten to brush it. She looked at Albus coldly.

_ She's still angry with me_, Albus realized. _How can I make her understand?_

Calliope sat down, so absorbed in her book that she hardly attended to her meal. Then,Malfoy appeared, trailing behind Professor Frobisher. Breakfast was almost over, and Malfoy had missed the entire meal—undoubtedly being berated by their Head of House. _She won't like that_, Albus thought. _Trouble on the first day, and she even missed her brunch. I wonder how many detentions he got . . ._

A loss of house points didn't matter to Albus. The sooner Malfoy showed his colors, the better for everyone—especially Hal. He seemed a nice enough bloke, but he was too rigid for his own good. He couldn't even take the most kindly-meant advice. Soon, he'd be sucked into Malfoy's web—as his big, burly bodyguard, no doubt.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: **Many thanks to my beta, ladyoftheknightley.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.


	8. Chapter Seven: Reunions and Reversals

**Even ****Unto ****the ****Seventh ****Generation**

"[Scorpius] resembled Draco as much as Albus resembled Harry."

-_Harry __Potter __and __the __Deathly __Hallows_, 756.

**Chapter**** Seven****: ****Reunions and Reversals**

That afternoon, the Potter-Weasley clan gathered under a willow tree. It was almost the same as before. Fred and James poked fun at their siblings and cracked each other up. Molly complained. Marie Delacour sat in silence, watching and listening, her expression unreadable as her long, brown hair blew across her face. Louis leaned against the tree trunk, examining his fingernails. They were all together, as if nothing strange had happened. Yet something fundamental had shifted between them.

Albus was chewing on his quill again. Of course, the inevitable happened. He bit down just a little too hard, a little too close to the nib, and ended up with a mouth full of ink. There was no way to hide it—James and Molly were already cracking up. As Albus spat in the grass, Louis rolled his eyes.

"Seriously, Al, when are you going to get over that disgusting habit? No girl's going to give you a second look if you've got a black tongue."

At least _he_ hadn't changed.

Some of the others already had. Roxanne sat a little ways away from the rest of the group and Rose _still_ wouldn't look at Albus. In fact, everything was a mess. _Everything_. Even school.

"What are you gonna to do about the new classes, Jamie?" Fred asked.

"Dunno. Probably take whatever ones _you_ do."

"That's what I was going to do."

"Huh," James muttered, taking the parchment from his cousin and turning it around and over several times. "I guess I'll keep a slot open for Divination in case Shackled-Bolts _does_ find a teacher. Gut course, you know. Bet it'll be funny."

Fred crossed his eyes started repeating "woo-woo." James joined him until Rose smacked him on the side of the head.

"Shut up, _Jamie_!"

James glared at his cousin. No one but Fred was allowed to call him "Jamie."

Molly took advantage of the lull in her cousins' conversation. "I can't _believe _Kingsley Shacklebolt resigned," she whinged. "Resigned! Just like that!"

"You 'ave said zis a thousand times," Marie said. "Maybe we 'ave 'eard you already."

"Yes, we heard her. And Molly," Rose said, "I thought you knew _all about_ this 'major scandal.' I guess not, huh?"

Molly sniffed at Rose's taunt, but she didn't mention the headmaster again. She never liked to be caught in a fib.

"Okay," Fred continued, as if there had been no interruption. "One slot open for Divination. Muggle Studies—required. Remedial History of Magic—required. Not much room for optional courses."

"Let's stick with Hagrid."

"Done." Fred punched James's shoulder. James punched back. A tussle would have ensued if Roxanne hadn't spoken.

"Why'd he do it?" she asked, gazing steadily at the older boys.

They both looked up and shrugged.

"Beats me."

"Me too."

"Glad he got rid of Binns," James said. "It's about time. Boringest class I ever took."

"'The most boring,'" Albus corrected automatically.

"Why thank you, _Mr. Allbrains Potter_!" James snapped.

"He must feel so bad," Roxanne commented.

"Who? Allbrains?"

"No, not Albus. _Binns._ He rose from the grave because he loves to teach. I guess this is why we haven't seen him in the Great Hall."

"Aw, he'll live," Fred scoffed. Molly and Louis exchanged a smirk. Louis said that he doubted ghosts had feelings, anyway.

"At least he'll have something to do," Albus said before Roxanne could protest. "Lysander was ready to burst when he heard he could be tutored in Gobbledegook."

"_And_ take independent studies in the history of Goblin rebellions. What fun!" she added, tucking a curl behind her ear.

"What fun—for Lysander," he countered.

Roxanne smiled at Albus for the first time since he'd called Malfoy out. It felt so good that he forgot all about his teeth and smiled back. His cousin giggled, and, since there was no malice in her laughter, Albus joined in. Then, he turned serious:

"I can't believe that Binns stepped down voluntarily. Or Professor Cartwright." Cartwright had been the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and all the older Potter-Weasley students had liked him.

"Well," James answered, "_I_ can't believe that we're going to have to spend the next five years taking double-History of Magic and double-Muggle Studies just to catch up! And no Hogsmeade, either!"

Fred nodded. "That's the icing on the rock cake."

"We'll find away around it."

"Nobody gets around Hagrid's rock cake. Nobody."

Now that Fred and James had worked out their timetables, the cousins fell into a companionable silence. Albus lay on the grass, watching the clouds float overhead.

After a few minutes, Molly sighed. "Four new teachers—maybe."

Rose exhaled. "New classes," she said with trepidation. "Harder classes."

"New books," Albus smiled. "Better books."

"That's going to be expensive," Roxanne said. "I mean, for some of the other students."

Albus could imagine a little frown creasing her forehead. Although the Potter-Weasleys had more than enough money between them, Roxanne never forgot about how hard their grandparents had had it.

"Don't worry about that, Rox," Fred said quickly. "You heard the headmaster. Some bloke donated enough money to buy new books for _anyone_ who needs them."

Rose's voice drifted towards Albus. "You know, I could swear that when he said that, he looked right at Scorpius Malfoy . . ."

Her words hung in the air for a moment before Albus sat up. He looked at Louis. His cousin was still leaning against the willow tree, but his languid air had vanished, replaced by a sudden tension. His amber eyes darkened. Then, the moment passed: Louis seemed himself again. Pulling his wand from his pocket, he began to beat a casual tattoo against his palm.

"What do you think of our new Defense teacher, Rosie?" he drawled. "Don't you think he's a beautiful, beautiful man?"

"He looks—dangerous—to me."

"Exactly." Louis smiled as he gazed out at the lake—tap, tap, tapping the wand against his hand.

* * *

The spell was broken. Rose's comment about Malfoy combined with Louis's sudden change of mood ended the family reunion. Molly and Marie headed back to Slytherin. Roxanne wandered towards the spot where Claire and Charlotte were chatting. And Albus—Albus didn't wait for anyone. He just started walking.

Then he heard James call to him. He paused until his brother caught up. For a moment, James shuffled awkwardly.

"I didn't _actually _think you'd be sorted into Slytherin, Al," he said. "I was just bamming you."

Albus didn't answer.

"I'm sorry."

Again, Albus was silent.

"You gonna to be alright, little brother?" James pressed. "I mean—Ravenclaw's not _that_ bad, is it?"

"No," Albus said.

"Roxanne is there."

Albus nodded.

"And I'm here."

"Yes."

"So—everything's okay?"

Albus looked his older brother in the eye, suddenly realizing that—despite the two year difference in their ages—they were already the same height. "I'm going to be just fine," he said, and he almost meant it.

"Good." James grinned. "You're 'going' to be fine, and I'm 'gonna' to keep calling you 'Allbrains.'"

As his brother jogged back towards Fred, Albus shouted that he was a git. Receiving no response, Albus trudged uphill. Rose's coolness was weighing on him. Out of all his cousins, he'd always gotten along with her the best. Sensible, sharp-tongued, and ready to take action, Rose was a perfect foil for Albus's more quiet, bookish nature. She drew him out, and he brought her back to earth. Even if he was getting used to the idea of being in Ravenclaw, he hated that he'd be separated from Rose.

Albus's headache returned, and, when he tripped over a stone, he kicked it. The rock went flying, and Albus limped up the castle stairs. _When I make it up to her_, he thought, _I'll do whatever it takes to keep her happy. Even her homework_.

By the time Albus climbed up the stairs and answered the eagle's riddle, he was hot and sweaty and thought he might as well wash up before dinner. His dormitory was empty, and balls of discarded parchment littered the floor around Malfoy's desk. Annoyed, Albus fished his wand out of his pocket, threw his robe in a heap on his bed, and grabbed a towel out of his trunk. Throwing the rest of his clothes down, he headed for the bathroom.

Just as Albus reached for the door, it flew open, knocking him on the shoulder. Malfoy stood on the other side, eyes wide.

"Watch what you're doing!" Albus snapped, wincing.

"Sorry, Albus," the other boy said.

"What are you doing here?"

"I—I was taking a shower, Albus."

"And before that you were making a mess. We're not here to clean up after you. And _don't_ call me 'Albus.'"

"It's my room, too." Malfoy replied, looking up at him. As Albus pushed past him, Malfoy murmured:

"You should really clean your teeth . . . Potter. You look terrible._" _His voice echoed against the stone walls.

Albus slammed the door behind him. When he saw his ink-stained mouth in the mirror, he realized just how foolish a picture he'd presented. He raised his wand to wash it out, vowing never to chew on another quill. He wasn't going to give Malfoy anything else to mock. Then, Albus froze. Although he'd barely glanced at his housemate, he remembered something strange.

Malfoy had been carrying a toothbrush.

A toothbrush? _Malfoy_? Hadn't his parents bothered to teach him even the simplest spells?

* * *

Scorpius picked up the few balls of parchment he'd tossed down in disgust. No matter how he tried, he couldn't get his list right. It was always too long, or too complex, or too—well, too far out of his reach. He couldn't just "make friends" because he wrote it on some checklist. He couldn't "earn top marks" just because it would make his dad happy. He had no idea how to resolve the problems of Caleb Keselman, Hal Dursley, Professor Hagrid, and the others. And he didn't _really_ want to find out whether there were rogue Lestranges running around New York City.

At this rate, how was Scorpius going settle his father's debts? What about his own? What about the Malfoy family's? It was too much.

Gathering the bits of parchment, Scorpius walked towards the fireplace. He kneeled in front of the embers and burned the discarded drafts. Brushing dust off his clothes, Scorpius noticed he was standing next to Albus's four-poster. His housemate's bed was unmade and his robe was in a rumpled heap on top of it. Strewn across the floor—all the way to the bathroom—were two-days-worth of clothing. Albus's trunk still sat in the middle of the room.

_So_, he thought, _Albus__ Potter doesn't want to clean up _my_ messes? _

A tight, hot knot grew in his belly. At last, Scorpius was angry. He'd been taught his whole life to set things right, and now Albus scolded him like a child over a few scraps of paper. He'd been reprimanded by the only boy in their class who tossed his things all over the room. Scorpius clenched his fists. He only had a few minutes before Albus was finished in the washroom.

Without thinking, Scorpius threw himself at Albus's bed and attacked one of the pillows. When he was satisfied that he'd made his point, he ran out of the dormitory as fast as he could. He hoped that Albus Potter got the message.

* * *

Albus stared in disbelief. _He__ touched my things! Scorpius Malfoy touched my things!_

The dorm room was pristine. The crumpled bits parchment were gone—and Albus's bed had been made with military precision. The pillows were fluffed. His clothes were neatly folded on his bed. His robe had been laid out next to them, not a speck of dirt or dust upon it. His trunk was exactly centered at the foot of his bed.

Scorpius had insulted Albus without saying a single word. Oh yes, Albus got the message—and he didn't like it. He balled up all his clothes, tossed them in his trunk, and pulled out fresh things. He was just about to muss up the bed, too, when the door opened. Hal looked around.

"Wow, thanks, Albus!" the burly boy grinned. "This is much better. Barked my leg on your trunk this afternoon." Hal sat on his bed and rubbed his knee good-naturedly.

Albus nodded at his classmate and decided to leave the bed as it was. As he pulled on his shirt, he noticed the withered parchment in the fireplace. Most of the sheets had been reduced to husks, but one was barely singed. Picking it out of the ashes, Albus carefully opened it. It was a list, the edges burnt away:

—_Dursley_

_—iera Lestrange_

_ Caleb__ Keselman_

_ Rubeus__ Hagrid_

and at the bottom:

_Albus__ P—_

Malfoy had scrawled a heavy "X" across the whole page. A chill ran down Albus's spine. As Hal hummed, blissfully unaware, Albus slipped the scrap of parchment under his pillow. Suddenly, Scorpius's little insult seemed more like a threat.

Albus was going to have to watch him very, very carefully.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: **Many thanks to my beta, ladyoftheknightley.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.


	9. Chapter Eight: A Week of Disasters

**Even Unto the Seventh Generation**

"[Scorpius] resembled Draco as much as Albus resembled Harry."

-_Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_, 756.

**Chapter Eight: ****A Week of Disasters**

"_Dear Mum_," Scorpius wrote. After a pause, he added: "_Please don't show this letter to Dad_." Father needed to read a colored version of his first week or he'd have another one of his fits.

Early Saturday morning, Scorpius was ensconced in his favorite nook as he bent over his second letter home. He'd discovered the spot at the end of his first day of class. The other boys had taken over the dorm room, so Scorpius had retreated to do his homework. This place in the Ravenclaw common room seemed like a perfect refuge.

On either side of the giant fireplace, which jutted into the room, stood secluded writing desks that seemed to date from the eighteenth century. The oak tops bore the scars of many years of abuse: names scrawled inside hearts and other carvings, some of which made Scorpius blush. The little secretary's surface was uneven, but it was _almost _private. He could write and study there without having to interact with the others.

After all, it had become clear that the last thing his classmates wanted was to get to know Scorpius Malfoy better. He gritted his teeth and dipped his quill into the inkwell. As always, he noted the ink's color. Green. _I'll get blue or bronze as soon as this bottle runs out_, he resolved.

_As if ink color will make a whit of difference. _

He heard a familiar noise: the sound of cards being shuffled. To Scorpius's displeasure, the only other morning-person in Ravenclaw was Kiera Lestrange. Every day, she crept into the common room and planted herself at the other secretary. Then, she would begin. First, there he'd hear a soft, insistent sound—_riffle_, _riffle_, _riffle_. Then, Kiera would begin methodically dealing cards onto her table: _smack_, _smack_, _smack, smack._ Next, there'd be a long silence. After that, she'd begin the whole process again. She drove Scorpius crazy—both because she distracted him from his work and because he couldn't imagine what she was doing. Trying to ignore her, he continued:

"_This week has been a disaster."_

A disaster, indeed. What had begun with three of Rita Skeeter's most virulent articles and Scorpius's constant embarrassment in class had ended with an incident that destroyed all hope of restoring the Malfoy name—or even of making amends with his peers. He might as well confess the truth to Mum right away:

"_Dominique Weasley was attacked, and they think I did it. She's still in the hospital wing._"

Scorpius wouldn't go into the details—not unless Mum asked for them. He gritted his teeth. It was unfair! Yet, as outraged as he was to shoulder the blame, he had to admit he looked guilty. After all, Albus, Molly, and Louis Weasley had found him kneeling over Dominique's body.

Scorpius blinked. Kiera was beginning her ritual for the second time: _riffle, riffle, riffle_, _smack, smack, smack—_except this time she was dealing out even more cards. He laid his head on his arms, winced, and waited for her to stop. When silence came, he dipped his quill again.

"_I'm not doing as well at spell-casting as I want to._"

That was an understatement. By now, the secret he'd been hiding for so long was no secret at all. By now, everyone at Hogwarts knew that Scorpius Malfoy was _incapable of casting a spell_. Sure, he could write. Sure, he could answer any question in class with precision and accuracy—and he did so as often as possible. He always raised his hand first, hoping that raw knowledge would balance out his magical handicap. Thank goodness for Astronomy, Potions, Herbology, History of Magic, and Muggle Studies. Those courses wouldn't cause him constant humiliation.

He braced himself to write his final confession:

"_And no one will sit with me in class._"

He finished the letter as quickly as he could, with an uncharacteristically messy "_Love, Scorpius,_" then leaned back in his chair, carefully rubbing his eyes.

He didn't understand himself. Even after the attack he'd been blamed for and the mockery he knew he would endure for his incapacity with magic, his peers' rejection stung most of all. Everyone was either outright hostile, or quietly angry at him, or utterly indifferent.

Again: _Riffle, riffle, riffle. Smack, smack, smack_. Scorpius glowered. Ironically, one of the only people who _didn't_ shy away from him was a Lestrange. A _strange_ Lestrange at that. One who just _had_ to wake up early and drive him crazy with her infernal card-shuffling. The one person in his entire cadre with whom he was afraid to associate. How quickly his hopes—lit by the glowing turrets of Hogwarts castle—had faded. Sorry for himself, he added a postscript:

"_PS. Please, could I have a kitten? It doesn't have to be a Kneazle—just a regular one._"

If he had a kitten that no one could snatch away from him, Scorpius thought he wouldn't be so lonely. He knew he could have plucked on his mum's heartstrings, but his pride wouldn't allow it. He'd ask, he'd wait, and with luck, she'd send him one. More likely, she wouldn't. No, it wouldn't do to spoil her little boy, and even if his father would be inclined to indulge Scorpius, he'd have to save up to make some sort of grand gesture—just like he had with all those Muggle books.

On Monday morning, Scorpius had been hopeful. His prank on Albus had seemed to have worked: the boy hadn't made an insulting comment to him all night. His meeting with Professor Frobisher suggested that he had at least one teacher who would look out for him. Then, on the way to breakfast, he witnessed one of the most amazing sights of his life: the Gryffindor prefects, wands raised, were floating Caleb Keselman and his wheelchair down from Gryffindor Tower. Together, they gently set him down at the foot of the grand staircase.

How could Scorpius have assumed that someone like Caleb—someone who couldn't walk—couldn't be accommodated at Hogwarts? Why _shouldn't_ Caleb be there, if he had the gift of magic? He had as much right—even more—than Scorpius did. And if Caleb could be accepted and welcomed, why couldn't Scorpius be? He resolved to apologize for his ill-considered words as soon as he could get the other boy alone.

Then, another wonderful thing happened: his dad answered his letter. Was it his imagination that, when the brown owl landed on Scorpius's shoulder, Albus pushed himself as far back on the bench as he could? But whatever the other boy was up to, Scorpius didn't care. He wanted to know what his dad had to say. After stroking the owl's feathers, he broke the seal.

_He's proud of me for breaking the family curse, no matter what house I'm in._ Relieved, Scorpius folded the letter and put it away. He knew he'd have to read it a dozen times before his dad's words sank in. Scorpius had been concerned that his father wanted him in Gryffindor so badly that the sorting would displease him. After all, Gryffindor was the polar opposite of Slytherin, and what Draco Malfoy wanted more than anything was to show that the magical community's libel was wrong. It had, in fact, been difficult for Scorpius to persuade the Sorting Hat to put him in Ravenclaw. Now, all he had to do was prove that he belonged there. He sighed, remembering Professor Frobisher's hope that he'd be her top student when he knew that he'd fall short of her expectations.

Consulting his schedule, Scorpius noted that Charms was his very first class. A double-session with Gryffindor. _Great_. He'd hoped that he'd be in Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense Against the Dark Arts with the Hufflepuffs. They might be more charitable about his spell-casting. Instead, Ravenclaw had all those classes with either the Gryffindors or the Slytherins.

Since he'd brought his supplies to breakfast, Scorpius was the first to arrive in Professor Frobisher's classroom. After claiming one of the two-seater desks in the front row, he shut his eyes and tried to breathe. _Professor Frobisher likes me. It won't be so bad_. He repeated the refrain as the other students entered the room. One by one, they picked seats. Roxanne and Charlotte. Rose and Louis Weasley. Asclepius and Lysander. Hal, who strode to the front of the room, glanced at Scorpius, then sat at the other, empty front desk. Finally, only two seats remained, and only two students were missing: Albus Potter and Kiera Lestrange.

Albus arrived and pointedly turned his back on Scorpius, choosing to sit with Hal. When Kiera settled in next to him, Scorpius slid as far away as he could. During Professor Frobisher's lecture, he focused on his notes. Then, she spoke the words he'd been dreading:

"Now, let's try a few spells—" Scorpius's hand shook so much that he dribbled ink on his parchment. Before Frobisher could continue, someone called out from the back of the room.

"Professor Frobisher! Professor Frobisher!" the girl with bouncy brown curls interrupted.

"Yes—erm," she looked from one Weasley girl to the other, "—Miss _Rose_?"

"If you please, Professor, there's one spell we want to learn before anything else."

"And which one is that, Miss Rose?"

All of the Gryffindors—save Scorpius's glowering cousin, Bianca—shouted in unison: "_Wingardium Leviosa!_"

Frobisher smiled. "How fortunate. That charm is the very first on my syllabus."

Caleb Keselman flushed with pleasure.

* * *

For the rest of the week, Scorpius was stuck in an endless variation on that Muggle game, "Musical Chairs." In every class, he sat next to a different student. If he arrived late, he heard the refrain "that seat is saved." If he arrived early, as he usually did, he'd be the last to get a partner. In classes with Slytherin, Albus would sit next to Molly Weasley. Thus, in Transfiguration, he was stuck with his cousin Blake, who elbowed Scorpius in the ribs every time he took a note or flicked his wand.

The rest of the time, Scorpius ended up next to Calliope, whose prodigious talent made Scorpius's failures all the more obvious, or Kiera, who—when she wasn't walking with Hal—always got lost on the way to class. Scorpius's only respites were Astronomy, where he could take his telescope to a remote corner of the tower, and Herbology, which allowed him to sit off to the side of the greenhouse.

Then, Rita Skeeter's "investigative reports" began to appear in the _Daily Prophet_. On Tuesday, the headline screamed, "MINISTER FOR MAGIC ABANDONS POST!" In her article, Skeeter claimed:

"_Narcissa Malfoy, the known war-criminal who bought her way onto the Wizengamot, refused to comment on Shacklebolt's ousting, though it's obvious that her faction is responsible for what can only be described as a coup._" Scorpius saw every student in the Great Hall turn to stare at him—and, strangely enough, at the Head Girl, who was hunched over her eggs, as well.

By Wednesday, Skeeter's sympathies had shifted. Her headline claimed:

"SHACKLEBOLT FIRES HOGWARTS FACULTY, HIRES MADMEN AND MONSTERS!"

Thursday, the front page said:

"HEADMASTER IMPORTS DANGEROUS WIZARDS" to join the first year class. Scorpius read her assertions with horror:

"_Cedric Diggory the Second . . . Amos Diggory's Muggle-made monster . . . defective experiment_; _Noah Thomas Riddle . . . name no coincidence_;_ Artemisia Gaunt . . . lost branch of purebred family . . . seven decades hiding in Romania_;_ . . . Kiera Lestrange . . . grand-daughter of Bellatrix Lestrange . . . baby boy born in Azkaban . . . raised abroad . . ._"

Before he read those lines, Scorpius had managed to convince himself that Kiera's name was a fluke. _Aside from her heart-shaped face_, he'd told himself, _she doesn't look _that_ much like the portrait of my great-aunt_. After all, her hair was straight and her eyes were different, sort of almond-shaped. She didn't seem particularly crazy. After Skeeter's article, however, Kiera was shunned by everyone except Hal. When she sat next to Scorpius in History of Magic, he could hear the Hufflepuffs whispering.

Scorpius knew his grandmother _wouldn't_ instigate a coup against the Minister for Magic. He didn't find the new professors particularly crazy or frightening—except Professor d'Eath, who, creepy as he was, couldn't _possibly_ be half-vampire. _Everyone_ knew that vampires, being dead, couldn't breed. Nevertheless, Scorpius _did_ believe Skeeter's final article. Her claims made too many pieces fall into place: for example, why those students' names had caused such a stir during the sorting, and why Kiera had frightened him so much the first time he'd seen her.

On Friday, after a particularly humiliating session of DADA, Scorpius fled to Professor Frobisher's office. She, at least, seemed to like him, even though he spent half an hour crying into her lace handkerchief and spilled a whole pot of coffee on her rug. She tried to soothe him:

"Hush, Scorpius. Your essay on the proper technique for casting _Wingardium Leviosa_ is one of the most accurate and well-written that I've ever received from a first-year."

"No, it's _highly_ unlikely that you are a Squib."

"Children are cruel, but I believe in time they'll see you for who you really are."

"Tosh. Everyone knows Rita Skeeter's articles are sensationalist rubbish." Her expression darkened before she added, "Poor Isolde."

And finally: "Forget about the carpet, sweetie. I never liked it anyway."

For some reason, _those_ words made Scorpius cry even harder.

* * *

Boys were not supposed to cry—especially Malfoy boys. After his meeting with Professor Frobisher, Scorpius had left the castle, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Since his classes were over for the week, he decided to take a long walk around the lake—long enough for the evidence of his tears to disappear.

That was his biggest mistake yet, but how could he have known that Dominique Weasley was about to be attacked?

He walked halfway around the lake, carefully avoiding the forbidden hundred meters from the edge of the Hogwarts campus. As he passed a clump of trees, he heard a shout—a boy's voice:

"Get down, get down!"

Then there was a scream—this time a girl. Without thinking, Scorpius ran towards the ruckus. Pushing past a patch of brambles, Scorpius spotted what was obviously a Weasley—one of the older ones, though at the time he didn't know which. Flying around her were dozens of bats. There was also boy—a boy in _Muggle_ dress!—running towards her.

"Get down, I tell you!" he shouted, a tree branch in one hand.

"No! Stop it! Get away!" she cried out. As the Weasley girl got more agitated, the bats multiplied and crowded around her head.

The Muggle was within a few meters of the girl when he told her to drop to the ground, "_Now!_" Then, he took a wild swing at the bats. But since the girl hadn't ducked, he struck her head instead.

The bats vanished as the Weasley girl crumpled onto the leaves.

"Oh, God," said the boy, "Oh, _God_!" Dropping the tree branch, he fled.

Scorpius ran towards the girl. He didn't know what to do. He had to get help. As he kneeled beside her, he touched her forehead, which had a bleeding cut, and—not thinking—picked up the branch to throw it aside.

The Weasley opened her eyes, looked up at Scorpius, and whispered "_Why_?" before passing out again.

_I've_ got_ to get help_, he thought.

Then, there was a rustling behind him. Footsteps. Someone was coming from over by the lake. Someone who could help them.

"You bloody _bastard_," came a low voice. "What have you done to my sister?"

Scorpius turned to see Louis Weasley, fists clenched. Running towards them were Albus and Molly. They both froze when they saw their cousin, blood trickling down her forehead.

"I didn't—Muggle boy—came at her with a tree branch—wanted to help," Scorpius sputtered.

"A Muggle? With a branch? A branch—like the one in your hand?" Louis stepped towards Scorpius, his lips pressed into a thin line. "How _stupid_ do you think I am? Can't cast a simple spell, so you beat my sister in the woods. Damn you, Malfoy!"

Before Scorpius could say another word, Louis Weasley punched him in the face. He could feel himself falling backwards, crumpling like Weasley's sister. He had no idea how many times the boy punched and kicked him, but when he woke up in the hospital wing, he was doubled up with pain. Madame Pomfrey was forcing him to swallow a vile potion.

All Scorpius had managed to say to her was, "Please, don't floo my parents."

Then, the darkness returned.

* * *

When Scorpius opened his eyes again, he heard the Weasley family on the other side of the hospital. He learned that the girl was Dominique, a fourth year. Her parents were as outraged as Louis—if not more. Dominique's injuries were far more severe than his own: a concussion from the blow to the front of her head, plus the one she'd gotten from hitting her head on a tree trunk. She would remain under observation for twenty-four hours.

Later, Madame Pomfrey returned to Scorpius's bedside, accompanied by Headmaster Shacklebolt, Ravenclaw's Head-of-House, and her co-Head, Professor Li. For some reason, they—and they _alone_—believed Scorpius's version of the attack. The adults spoke to each other as if he wasn't even there.

"I was afraid this would happen," Shacklebolt said to the nurse and the professors.

"So soon?" Professor Li asked, eyes widening.

"I thought it would be sooner. As of tomorrow, the perimeter will be _two_ hundred meters, and the punishment for entering it will be two week's detention."

Frobisher hesitated. "But what about Mr. Malfoy?"

"Two weeks detention, like everyone else. However, he can serve it under you, Victoria."

Frobisher thanked the headmaster, and so did Scorpius—silently. After the others had left, Madame Pomfrey raised her wand to heal the bruises on her patient's face.

"No," Scorpius said. He asked for a mirror and saw what Louis had done to him. Two black eyes. A broken nose. A fat lip. A goose egg on his head, as if the other boy had used the tree branch against _him_. What had he done to Louis Weasley to deserve such a beating? Scorpius knew he'd looked guilty—very guilty, even—but he didn't think that should justify so brutal an attack. He put the mirror back down.

"Madame Pomfrey?" he said. "Could you fix my nose, but leave the rest?"

"Are you sure?"

Scorpius said yes. Grumbling about uncooperative patients, the healer nevertheless honored his request. When Scorpius went back to the Ravenclaw common room, he took a prominent seat in front of the fire and remained there until all the other students—students who had not bothered to conceal their shock at his appearance—drifted off to bed. Scorpius stayed behind, watching the dying embers and wondering how a Muggle had found—and even worse, entered—an unplottable place. Such things should be _impossible_. Yet, it had happened. He _knew_ what he had seen.

Then, a floorboard creaked, and Isolde's soft voice floated towards him from a dark corner.

"You are either extraordinarily brave, Scorpius Malfoy, or extraordinarily stupid."

She emerged from the shadows.

"Are you going to punish me, too?"

She tilted her head and studied him. "Brave and thoughtless—like a Gryffindor. But not very cunning. No, not cunning at all. Unless that face of yours is part of some diabolical plan."

Scorpius stared at his shoes. "I know what you're going to say. 'Fools rush in.'"

"Ah, you've been listening. But is it foolish to try to save another person? You said there was a Muggle."

When Scorpius insisted that—strange as it seemed—there _had_ been a boy in Muggle clothing in the woods, the Head Girl looked thoughtful.

"It does make sense." She rested her arm on the back of his armchair. "If that is what happened, then 'the truth will out.'"

"You _believe_ me?"

"I believe in facts. Even if I _am_ Rita Skeeter's daughter." With those words, Isolde walked back into the shadows.

* * *

_Riffle, riffle, riffle. Smack, smack, smack_. Kiera Lestrange was at it again. This time, Scorpius didn't bury his face in his arms. It hurt too much. He sealed the letter to his mother and pulled out a second sheet of parchment. This one was for his dad.

_Dear Mum and Dad_, he wrote.

_Although this week has been full of surprises, I've learned a lot. _

_ Professor Frobisher says that my first essay in Charms is the best she has ever received from a first-year. Professor Sinistra showed me the constellation you named me after. I like History of Magic and Potions. Don't worry, the new professors are not as crazy as the _Daily Prophet_ claims. I think that some of them have taken a shine to me._

_ The Ravenclaw common room is more beautiful than I ever imagined, and I can see the lake from my dorm. I am learning a lot about the Weasley-Potter family, and it's interesting to share a room with Albus. One of my classmates lets me play with his kitten sometimes. He is named Widget. The kitten, not my classmate._

_ Please keep writing. Hearing from you makes me happy._

_ Love, _

_ Scorpius Malfoy._

When Scorpius took his letters to the Owlery, he recruited _two_ owls. He asked the one that liked him best to deliver the first letter to his mother—and only his mother. Another, the cranky owl who glared at him from one sleepy eye, would do for the second.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: **Many thanks to my beta, ladyoftheknightley.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.


	10. Chapter Nine: Humbled

**Even Unto the Seventh Generation**

"[Scorpius] resembled Draco as much as Albus resembled Harry."

-_Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_, 756.

**Chapter Nine: Humbled**

"_This week has been a disaster_!" Albus heard Molly's voice long before he sat down under their favorite willow tree. "When they elect a new Minister, it could be another twenty years before he retires. And what if it's a woman? _I_ want to be the first woman in office since Millicent Bagnold!"

"Can't you think of anything but politics, Molly?" Rose twirled a wildflower between her fingertips. Nearby, Louis examined a willow branch.

"It's not like you had the worst of it, you know," he said under his breath. _Crack_! He snapped the stick in two. Both Rose and Albus scooted back. There was no avoiding the tirade now.

"How dare she!" Louis exploded, hurling the pieces into the center of the circle. "How _dare_ she treat me this way! 'Since you seem to enjoy working with your hands, Mr. Weasley,'" he said—mimicking Professor McGonagall's distinctive, tight voice—"'You shall spend the next six weeks scrubbing Hogwarts' latrines. _Without_ _magic._'" As Louis paced, Roxanne looked at him as if he were a stranger.

"It does seem a little harsh, doesn't it? I mean, Malfoy attacked Dominque first," Rose said.

"A little harsh?" Louis demanded, turning from one cousin to another, "A _little_?"

"Louis," Roxanne said, "We all saw what you did to Scorpius's face."

"Don't you think he planned it that way? And now _I'm_ scrubbing toilets for the next few _eons_, while _he's_ cataloging books for Professor Frobisher. Bastard!" he added, under his breath.

"Even worse," Molly said, "Shacklebolt dragged _me_ to his office. Oh, yes—you too, Albus. And we didn't even _do_ anything!"

"How did _you_ explain yourself, Molly?" Albus said.

"How did I explain what? Why I didn't pull Louis off Malfoy? How _could_ I? I might've gotten hurt. He's bigger than me, and he had the branch." She shrugged. To her, the excuse was perfectly reasonable.

Part of Albus wanted to agree that it was unfair for Louis to receive such a disproportionate punishment, but he couldn't bring himself to say the words. He'd watched Louis attack a much smaller boy. He'd seen Malfoy doubled up in pain in the infirmary. He'd even gasped when his classmate strode into the Ravenclaw Common Room, the evidence of what Louis had done etched on his face.

No, Albus couldn't agree. Not after going through one of the most painful interviews he'd ever experienced. Neither Molly nor he had been prepared for the Headmaster to drag them from the hospital wing to his office. After he ordered Molly onto the staircase and gave his password ("universal justice"), Albus fretted in the empty hall. By the time his cousin came down, he was quaking.

"Don't worry, Al," Molly had whispered, squeezing his arm, "It's nothing much."

Moments later, Albus was in the Headmaster's austere office. Aside from a neat stack of parchment and a few quills, the only item on his desk was the Sorting Hat. Without inviting his student to sit, Shacklebolt strode to the fireplace and gazed into the flames. Albus was left to endure the stares of Hogwarts' former Headmasters. Some—even _Severus Snape_—looked at Albus with disgust. After what seemed like hours, the Headmaster spoke.

"Explain yourself."

Albus stood, frozen.

"Tell me why you allowed this to happen," Shacklebolt insisted. "Why did you stand by while one of your own peers was beaten to a pulp?"

"I—I—don't know, sir," he'd stammered.

"You don't know." The Headmaster finally turned. "You—don't—know."

"Yes, sir. I mean, no sir."

"It never occurred to you to do something?"

"No, sir." Albus wanted to sink into the floor.

The Headmaster crossed to his desk and sat. He raked a hand through his greying hair.

"Could it be because the victim was Mr. Malfoy?"

"I don't know, sir." This time, Albus was lying—at least a little. He didn't know what he would have done if Louis had attacked a different student, but part of him _had_ been glad to see Malfoy thrashed.

"I expected better from you, Mr. Potter."

"I'm sorry, sir."

Shacklebolt picked up the Sorting Hat.

"Are you? Or are you just sorry that you're standing here now?"

Albus swallowed hard.

"I considered calling in your parents, but under the circumstances I believe it would do little good. Your father is an excellent Auror, but he is not noted for his tolerance."

Albus had never heard his dad censured before. He bristled, then fought back.

"How could you _say_ that about my father?"

"Tolerance is not a quality that is required of an Auror. It can even prove—detrimental. I should know. It is, however, required of a Minister for Magic. A headmaster. A professor. And—of a student at Hogwarts."

Albus set his jaw, unwilling to let go of such an unjust slight. The Potters and Weasleys—_especially_ Aunt Hermione—were known for their liberality: towards House Elves, Goblins, Centaurs, and, well, magical creatures of any kind. They had fought to eliminate prejudice against Muggleborns and even for greater understanding of Muggles themselves. They were on the side of the light; the Death Eaters were not. They—and the Malfoys in particular—represented everything Albus's family stood against. Yes, tolerance was well enough for some people—but not for others.

"Headmaster," Albus said in a low voice, "Scorpius Malfoy _attacked_ my cousin."

"Did you see the attack?"

"No, sir," he confessed. Another silence stretched between them as the Headmaster examined the hat. When he spoke again, he wasn't addressing Albus at all.

"Tolerance. Yes, that is what we were hoping for. Tolerance and understanding—no matter what House or family a student belongs to."

He looked up at Albus. "You have no idea of the world you will face when you graduate from Hogwarts. It will not be the world of your parents or your grandparents. You cannot behave as if it will be, or the consequences—for all of us—will be dire."

By now, Albus was confused. What was the Headmaster doing defending Malfoy and insulting Harry Potter? Why was he choosing to ignore what was obvious—that Malfoy had acted first and Louis had merely defended his sister? Why was he conversing with the Sorting Hat as if it contained the answers to his questions? And how was Albus's inaction in _one_ fight connected to the future of the entire wizarding world? Fights happened at Hogwarts all the time. They were practically a tradition!

Perhaps Rita Skeeter was right. Perhaps Shacklebolt _had_ gone off his rocker.

The Headmaster gently set the hat back on his desk. "Often, inaction in the face of injustice is more terrible than the crime itself. You shall not be punished this time, Mr. Potter. Sometimes shame is a better deterrent than detention. And I do hope you are ashamed.

"You are dismissed," he finished curtly, returning to his paperwork without giving Albus another glance.

A day later, Albus was still trying to sort out his feelings. He _was_ ashamed, but he was also angry. Angry that Malfoy had gotten away with knocking out his cousin. Angry at the way his stomach twisted up when he saw his housemate's face. Angry that Shacklebolt was acting like what he had done—or _not_ done—could have serious consequences. Most of all, Albus was angry that the Headmaster—his father's colleague and fellow _war hero_—was defending the son of a Death Eater while insulting _Harry Potter_. Nobody had been killed, after all, and Malfoy might have learned his lesson before the first week of their first year even ended. Maybe the students on Scorpius's list would be safe now—even the ones who didn't have friends to protect them.

Then, there was Albus's own family to think about. Louis and his sisters had suffered at Draco Malfoy's hands. Brave as Uncle Bill was, he had wounds that would never heal. If Scorpius was _anything_ like his father, the consequences could be catastrophic. Most likely, he was; after all, Scorpius had already shown himself to be sneaky, violent, and manipulative. He'd even wormed his way into the faculty's favor, receiving preferential treatment for a similar infraction.

Even though Albus was thinking himself in circles, he knew he had to say _something_—and that something would come with a price.

"Louis, none of us will ever believe Malfoy's lies. But . . . maybe . . . you went a little too far."

His cousin answered him with a single word:

"Traitor."

And then he stalked away.

"Way to go, Allbrains," James smacked his brother upside the head. "That was _real_ smooth. We're gonna have a _great_ time now."

"Yeah," Fred nodded, "You're going back to Ravenclaw—but _we_ have to live with him."

_A traitor_, Albus thought._ That's what Rose thinks I am, too. Can't I get _anything_ right_? Despite himself, he chewed on his wand.

"Albus," Rose whispered through her teeth, "You'll blow your head off."

_Big loss_. _One turncoat down_.

Roxanne was studying the group, her brow furrowed. "But—maybe there _was_ a Muggle. Maybe the teachers _believe_ Scorpius," she suggested. "They might know something we don't."

When six pairs of eyes gaped at her, she insisted that the presence of a real Muggle was the only thing that explained the Headmaster's actions.

"I don't believe—" Rose started.

"I can't believe—" Albus began.

They finished in unison: "—you're defending Malfoy?!"

For the first time that week, Rose and Albus looked each other in the eye. The moment was brief, however.

"What's _happened_ to you all?" Roxanne demanded, climbing to her feet. "Where is my sensible Rose? My logical Albus? My brave big brother and his sidekick 'Jamie,' defenders of the truth? Don't bother inviting me to your little family picnics anymore. I've had enough."

"Hey! Hey, sis!" her brother called after her, "Why d'you always have to be such a _prig_?" No response. Fred turned to his best mate. "Jamie, why _does_ she have to be such a prig?"

James shrugged. "Always been that way, hasn't she?"

Fred nodded, but looked no less disturbed. James broke the silence.

"Sooooooo . . ." he said. "On a scale of one to ten: just how evil are your Slytherin housemates?" In spite of his teasing, James had a way of smoothing over the Weasley-Potters' rough patches.

"Oh, _Merlin_," Rose answered quickly, "Bianca Greengrass-Zabini—definitely a ten! She tears around the Common Room yelling at anyone who gets in her way, and she has the table manners of a troll. I'm sure she spilled that juice in front of me on purpose . . ."

"Funny how you fell, though!"

"No. No, it wasn't."

"Backwards—right on your bum—all your notes flying. Good thing they're so short—not much to pick up. And your robes smelled like pumpkin for days!"

"I didn't have time to wash them!" Rose snapped at James. She hated using House Elves.

"What about ze beeg girl, zat Grace Bulstrode-Boot?" said Marie Delacourt.

Rose ran her fingers through her hair. "Um . . . five?"

"Just five?" Albus was surprised.

"Well, she _did_ want to help Caleb, and she hasn't done anything wrong."

"Not much to look at, though."

"Fred!"

"Well," he said, "It's true."

Molly observed that, despite the fact that Georgiana Goyle always looked grim and loomed over the smaller kids, the Hufflepuff didn't seem _particularly_ evil.

"So . . ." Albus ventured, "A six?"

"A 'wait and see,' I think," Rose replied, playing with her flower.

"'Ow about ze Lestrange girl?"

"Not necessarily a Slytherin. Skeeter's 'baby born in Azkaban' theory seems far-fetched. I don't think a newborn could last there for more than a minute."

"Um, hello, Rosie. What horrible memories could it have had?" James demanded.

"Nine months in Bellatrix Lestrange's womb?"

_Touché._ Rose insisted that they needed more evidence. The name could be a fluke.

"And, finally, we come to our darling Scorpius Malfoy," James ventured. "On a scale of ten—twenty!"

"Definitely," Fred nodded. "So why did Roxy defend the arsehole? He'd better not be trying to get his claws into her."

"Don't worry, mate. As long as we're around, the little stinger'll never get the chance. We'll look out for her, whether she likes it or not. That's what family's for."

* * *

When the cousins finally went their separate ways, Albus followed Rose. He'd been trying to get her alone for a week and was determined to set things right—and _right __now, before her memories of their brief, warm exchanges under the willow tree had faded._

"Rose! Where are you going?"

"Back to Gryffindor, of course. All my friends are there."

_Traitor_. The word flashed through Albus's mind again. Rose walked faster and announced that she had to write her essays, but Albus's long legs quickly closed the distance between them—physically, at least.

"How many do you have to go?"

"All three."

_None of her essays started, and all of them due tomorrow_! Albus couldn't understand it. His cousin had talent. No one could deny she was _good._ Maybe she wasn't the best witch in their year, but she almost always mastered a spell before the end of class. His shock must have shown on his face.

"I told you I needed you, Albus!" Rose snapped. "I said that without you, I'd disappoint Mum and Dad."

"But why? You're so good."

"Just because I can wave a wand or make a broom jump into my hand doesn't mean I understand _why_. I've never understood, no matter how many times Mum tries to explain." She flushed.

Before continuing, Rose paused near the castle wall. "Dad doesn't really understand that stuff either. That's why he still thinks I'll be top of my class. But Mum knows. I can tell." She pulled out her wand and pointed it at the blossom in her other hand.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_" The flower floated up, higher and higher, until she set it down on top of a crumbling buttress. _Impressive control_. "I've been practicing, you see," she explained, as if she'd read Albus's thoughts.

At last, he understood Rose's fears. "I can still help you," he said. "We all get the same assignments. We can work together in the library."

"You would do that?"

Albus nodded.

"You'll sit with me in class, too? I'm getting sick of Louis. He never pays attention."

Albus was happy to agree to any and all of Rose's terms—and she had quite a few. Finally, they embraced each other, albeit a little awkwardly.

"I'm sorry about this week, Al. I know you didn't have a chance to talk to the Hat. It happened so fast. You do belong in Ravenclaw. I was just . . . so . . . angry. And scared," she added.

Rose's tentative smile made the pain of the last two days fade into the background, and Albus accepted her apologies with ease. It wasn't long before the cousins were chatting as happily as ever. _It's nice_, Albus thought, _to go back to the way things were_. _After all, what's more important than family?_

* * *

Writing and rewriting Rose's essays took hours. What she'd said was true: Rose had almost no grasp of what made magic work, and Albus found himself dictating large portions of her homework. If he hadn't—just this once—they'd never have finished in time. At least she wrote what he said in her own words. That way, their essays wouldn't be identical. By the time they left the library—trailing Hal Dursley and Kiera Lestrange—it was almost curfew. Climbing the staircase, the cousins couldn't help overhearing their fellow students' conversation.

"Scorpius was right! I didn't want him to be, but he was right!" Hal was saying.

"About what?"

"In Diagon Alley, he told me people would judge us by what House we got. That it would stick with us for life. And now everyone's labeling everyone else by what House they are 'supposed' to be in or what name they were born with. It's just like home—just like what Pop said about his boarding school. I—I—thought that wizards would be better."

"This is how it is. If there's anything different about you, you're fair game. Here, it's my name. At home, it was dad's shop."

When Hal asked what was up with her father's shop, she commented that it was a little "esoteric." Her voice was so low that Albus had to strain to hear her. Then, she noticed him and Rose on the landing. "I'll tell you about it someday, but not now," she finished before they continued up the stairs.

There was something so vulnerable in her voice—and something so accusing in her glance—that Albus felt another stab of guilt. Perhaps he'd been too quick to judge the re-sorted Slytherins? Roxanne _had_ been right about one thing. Other than her, Albus always had been the most generous of his cousins. Now, he hardly recognized himself. It was time to get over his anger, especially since he and Rose were friends again.

Just as Albus resolved to do better, Rose interrupted his thoughts.

"I think," she said, "We should find out what her father does as soon as possible."

She hugged Albus and hurried towards Gryffindor Tower. _Sensible Rose_. She was always ready to collect new evidence. Somehow she would discover the Lestranges' secret. Until then, Albus would suspend judgement. He'd give the Death Eaters' children every chance to prove themselves innocent.

_Except Malfoy, of course_. _He's already shown where his loyalties lie._

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: **Many thanks to my beta, ladyoftheknightley.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.


	11. Chapter Ten: The Making of a Hero (I)

**Chapter Ten: The Making of a Hero (I)**

On Monday morning, Scorpius entered the Charms classroom only to discover that Hal had arrived before any other student—even before Professor Frobisher. He'd dragged two of the double-desks together. Now, where there had been two seats, there were four. Hal was already setting out his parchment and quills, one seat empty to his left, two to his right.

Scorpius understood at once: Hal had changed his mind about him. He didn't have to be alone anymore. He'd been collected, and this time, Hal Dursley wasn't going to change his mind. Of course, Scorpius already knew who the _other_ seat was saved for. Hal was offering a package deal: accept me, accept Kiera. No exceptions. That was the price of the olive-branch.

As Scorpius hovered near the door, time seemed to slow down. Taking that seat meant that he'd be associating the Malfoys with the Lestrange name once again. His father would be disappointed. His grandmother would be disappointed. His mother—well, Scorpius didn't know about her. She'd never wanted her son to be alone—there just hadn't been much she could do about it. The Malfoys were still outcasts, after all, no matter how hard they'd tried to make amends. One wrong step, and Scorpius could undo all their work.

_Avoid all appearance of evil_, his father had told him. Whether the girl was related to Scorpius or not, she was branded by her name. It was a taint. It didn't matter _who_ she was, everyone had already decided _what_ she was. If he took those twenty steps to the front of the room, if he took that seat, Scorpius would confirm their suspicions. Was that right? Was that fair—even to Kiera?

Could Scorpius pay that high a price for Hal's friendship?

_But Father also said to _do_ no evil_, Scorpius reminded himself. _Do what is right, not what is easy._ _Be brave, son, like I never was_.

This was his chance to be brave. All he had to do was start walking.

Other students were drifting in. If Scorpius waited much longer, his decision would be made for him. Still, although his conscience told him to accept Hal's offer, his sense of family loyalty said to refuse. To back away. To hide from anyone who might make the Malfoys look bad.

Then, Louis Weasley ran into Scorpius from behind. Hard.

That's when the anger came again—the same self-righteous anger Scorpius had felt when Albus accused him of making a mess of their dorm. _Potter_ was a hypocrite, despite his good name. _Weasley_ was a bully, despite his good name. Kiera was an outcast because of her name. Isolde Skeeter suffered because of her name. He, Scorpius Malfoy, had a bad reputation no matter what he did—just because of his name. As for Hal—well, _he_ had no name at all, not in the wizarding community. Nevertheless, Hal was the one offering friendship, something no one else was willing to do.

Scorpius knew he was cowardly. He didn't think before he acted. He said all the wrong things. He hid in his books. He couldn't do magic. But in that moment, he decided there was one thing he refused to be: a hypocrite. He started walking. Twenty steps was all it took. Twenty steps down the center aisle. Twenty steps, and he'd taken a seat next to Hal. When Kiera slid onto the bench, Scorpius held his head high.

A sense of relief washed over him. _This time_, he told himself, _I've done the right thing_.

* * *

Before long, Scorpius's act of bravery caught up with him. Just as he'd expected, that olive-branch came with a price. Hal hadn't entirely forgiven him for the foolish things he'd said about certain wizards having bad blood, nor for declaring that Caleb Keselman didn't belong at Hogwarts. He was congenial, yet reserved, dogged, yet distant. Kiera was worse. She didn't even speak to Scorpius. The three of them went from class to class, sat together at every meal, did their homework around the same table, yet they didn't trust each other.

Nevertheless, within a few weeks their new nickname had spread around the entire school: the Terrible Trio. Scorpius didn't know who started it, but he suspected it was someone who'd heard plenty about his father. The mini-Malfoy, it was said, had found his minions. It was no wonder the nickname caught on: it was clear that Hal _was_ acting as a bodyguard to both Scorpius and Kiera—and they needed one.

It hadn't taken long for Scorpius to realize that his qualms about hurting Kiera had not been misplaced. Before he'd joined Hal, there had been whispers and rumors about her. Now, she was treated with outright hostility. Stray spells just seemed to . . . come her way. Scorpius couldn't help but notice the glances she gave him when Hal wasn't around: curious, confused, cold. She knew her situation was his fault, even if she didn't understand why. Another blunder, another apology to add to Scorpius's ever-growing list. What had happened to her _wasn't _fair, and Scorpius regretted that taking those twenty steps had cost her so much.

She really wasn't that bad after all, in spite of her infernal, early-morning card-shuffling.

It didn't help that Hal, while being an indifferent student in Transfiguration and Charms, was showing himself to be particularly good at defensive spells and jinxes. While he struggled to make a feather float, he mastered _Expelliarmus _almost as soon as Professor d'Eath taught it. Moreover, he and Kiera practiced in public. During their sessions, Scorpius stayed off to one side. A month had passed, and he still hadn't managed to cast a proper spell. His friends' exhibitions only strengthened the impression that he'd surrounded himself with people who would do his dirty-work for him.

Scorpius had hoped that Dominique Weasley would clear him when she emerged from the Hospital Wing, but he wasn't lucky there, either. The blows to her head had affected her memory, and all she could recall was a boy running towards her with a stick, then opening her eyes to see Scorpius leaning over her, branch in hand. Every time someone asked her what had happened, she gave the same answer:

"It might've been him who attacked me," she'd say, "but it might not've."

Of course, now that Dominique was on her feet again, a few students realized that Scorpius couldn't _possibly_ be guilty. She was fifteen years old and half a foot taller than him. There was no way he could have struck those blows to her head. However, the more prejudiced students—those who were easily influenced by the Potter-Weasley clan—remained convinced of Scorpius's guilt.

Fortunately, none of the teachers had made any comment on Hal's continued rearrangement of their classrooms. It was as if the faculty had decided to condone the so-called Terrible Trio. Another positive was that several of the teachers had—despite Scorpius's limitations—warmed up to him. Of course, Professor Frobisher had always been supportive—though as the weeks passed and her student repeatedly failed to produce more than a few sparks from his wand, she grew more and more concerned.

Professors McGonagall and d'Eath were far less patient than his Head-of-House, and Scorpius knew that—if he didn't succeed soon—they'd take action. Maybe he'd even be branded as a Squib and sent home.

Fortunately, the less magic a class required, the better Scorpius was received. Professor Longbottom, who had not seemed particularly inclined towards him, warmed up to any student who showed enthusiasm towards his subject. The same applied to Professors Sinistra and Grubbly-Plank, the pipe-smoking old crone whom Shacklebolt had promoted to replace Binns. Although Scorpius's potions were indifferent, his technique was meticulous. Thus, Slughorn regarded him with tolerance if not warmth.

Of course, Madam Pince had liked Scorpius from day one, but that was inevitable. Draco Malfoy had secured her support years before. At least that meant that Scorpius, Hal, and Kiera always had access whatever books they wanted, whenever they wanted—within the library's regular hours, of course, and as long as they didn't talk too loud.

Classwork became Scorpius's obsession. Each morning, when he wrote home, he struggled to find a bit of good news to tell his dad—but he knew it was inevitable that Draco Malfoy would eventually notice that his son never, ever commented on his spell-work. Each night, Scorpius worked feverishly on his essays, read his textbooks over and over, and practiced with his wand. Each day, he dreaded the moment he'd be called to Shacklebolt's office and sent home.

_What would Shacklebolt say_? "This is the first time the Register has ever been wrong." "We were mistaken." "You don't belong here." Or, simply, "You are dismissed."

Terrible words. _Will they snap my wand, too_? he wondered.

Sometimes he thought he was making progress. Sometimes his feather shivered, or his match seemed to turn a little silver. If he concentrated hard, he'd conjure blue and bronze sparks. Pitiful as they were, Scorpius was proud of them. Back in August, he'd been so certain that none of Ollivander's masterpieces would choose him. In fact, it had taken ages to find one that would respond to his touch. Then, the moment he grasped _this_ one, he'd felt a bond. He _knew_ it would work—that it was _his_. Thirteen inches. Ash-wood. Unicorn hair core—just like his mum and dad's.

Everything about that wand felt right.

Scorpius had seen the surprise in the shop-owner's face when that particular wand reacted to Scorpius's touch. Of course, there was nothing special about the wand itself—it was the _owner_ that caught Hephaestus Ollivander's attention. For once, the terse young man took the time to interpret his customer's new tool—something he'd neglected to do for any of the patrons who'd been ahead of Scorpius.

"Unicorn hair cores are dependable and faithful," the weary young man had said, leaning on the counter and running a dust cloth over the polished wood. "They're also quite hard to use for Dark Arts. Father was surprised that your father was picked by a wand like this . . . but later . . . " Ollivander cleared his throat before continuing, "Well, later, it made sense."

Even as impatient customers filed into the tiny store, the shopkeeper continued his lecture. Ash indicated intelligence, a gift for words and comprehension. It was a fitting wand for writers—poets—scholars. Best of all, ash wood was associated with justice_. Justice_! In short, Scorpius's wand was everything he could have hoped—and nothing the wand-maker had expected.

Of course, ash wood was _also_ supposed to remove mental blockages, but no matter how strongly Scorpius identified with the wand, he hadn't managed to overcome whatever was preventing him from casting a spell. Nevertheless, Scorpius polished and oiled it every night. Every morning, he removed it from its velvet-lined box, hoping that this would be the day his magic would emerge like a rainbow arching across a desolate sky . . .

But it didn't. A bit of ash wood and unicorn tail couldn't compensate for his own weaknesses. As the weeks went on and Scorpius began to despair, he started to forget the apologies he owed and the amends he'd promised he'd make. After all, he would never be able to achieve any of his father's goals if he got kicked out of Hogwarts.

* * *

"You are terrified. I wonder—are you terrified of me . . . of the Dark Arts . . . or of _everything_?" Professor d'Eath rasped, leaning over Scorpius, his head tilted to one side.

All three were of those suppositions were true.

The Gryffindors tittered. Usually, the DADA professor kept his eyes fixed on a spot over his students' heads, as if he didn't deign to look them in the eye. Now, he was staring Scorpius down. The experience was anything but pleasant.

From the first day of class, d'Eath had made Scorpius's skin crawl. Like many of the students and parents, Scorpius wondered what Shacklebolt was thinking when he hired a Dumstrang graduate and former rock star to teach at Hogwarts. The man walked around the castle as if he were above them all. Gold rings glittered on his fingers, making it perfectly clear that he had _no need_ to accept such a lowly position. He did, in fact, resemble a vampire, with his pale skin and his black hair slicked up in a pompadour. Only his eyes seemed alive, and now they were focused on Scorpius.

"You'll never cast a spell if the thought of it makes you sick. You disappoint me, Mr. Malfoy."

Although the professor's voice was low, it was amplified by the dungeon's arched ceiling and stone walls. Hal tensed beside his friend. He didn't react well to bullies, no matter what their age. Gesturing under the desk, Scorpius tried to calm him down. If Hal made a scene, they would _both_ pay for it—by losing House points, facing the wrath of the prefects, and getting dragged to Frobisher's office.

"I'm sorry, sir," Scorpius ventured.

He prayed that d'Eath would be satisfied and return to the lesson. Not that the lesson would ease Scorpius's fears. Every word d'Eath spoke—even _during_ his lectures—increased his anxiety. After all, the man explicitly intended to teach them not just defensive magic, but the mechanics of the Dark Arts as well.

On the first day of class, d'Eath had flicked his wand at the chalkboard, making a list appear:

_Fear_.

_Superstition_.

_Ignorance_.

_Weakness_.

_Terror_.

_Knowledge_.

_Power_.

The letters glowed red and jagged.

"Why do Dark Lords rise?" he asked, only to be greeted by silence. d'Eath answered himself, his eyes fixed on the flickering candles:

"Fear is to blame. It's fear that makes the Dark Arts so very . . . enticing. It's superstition that makes wizards bury certain spells and theories under trap-doors and behind locked doors. An ignorant population means a weak people. A weak people cannot resist a dark wizard. And a dark wizard—well, a dark wizard becomes that way because he gains knowledge the rest of you hide from."

Scorpius noticed that d'Eath did not include himself among those who hid from the Dark Arts.

Still looking past the classroom, the professor continued. Unlike Durmstrang, he'd explained, Hogwarts had crippled generations of wizards and witches by refusing to acknowledge the simple fact that the so-called Dark Arts were no different than any other magic. Evil, he claimed, lies inside each individual. Suppressing knowledge does nothing but clear the way for Dark Lords to rise—because only the most ruthless seek to break cultural taboos.

"So," he'd smiled, "We are going to break those taboos, one by one. There will be no more mysteries. No . . . more . . . fear."

From that day forward, Professor d'Eath had picked apart everything the Hogwarts students had been taught. Today's lesson—the one that had frightened Scorpius so badly—was on the subject of light and dark magic. d'Eath refuted the claim that the two could even be distinguished from one another. Every spell that British witches and wizards deemed light could be used for evil purposes. Every spell they considered dark could be used constructively.

"Even," d'Eath insisted, "the Unforgivables."

That's when Scorpius had gasped, attracting the rail-thin man's attention. _That's_ when the professor caught his student's eye and diagnosed exactly why he was broken. Fear. Paralyzing fear of possessing power. And d'Eath wasn't done with Scorpius yet.

"Do you think you're the next Dark Lord, Mr. Malfoy?" He raised an eyebrow and chuckled, looking Scorpius up and down. "Unlikely. You are hardly the stuff that a Voldemort—or a Grindelwald—or even a Dumbledore—is made of.

"Get over it, Malfoy. Or you will be the first to die."

With those words, the professor turned away.

The damage was done, however: bile filled Scorpius's mouth. He fled the classroom, desperately seeking the nearest toilet. Hal was close behind. As the door to the classroom closed, they could hear the professor's gravelly voice:

"Twenty points from Ravenclaw."

Hal stood outside the loo until Scorpius stopped retching. Once the smaller boy had rinsed mouth and his face in the sink, Hal grabbed him by the elbow and started to lead him away.

"We're getting out of here before class ends," he said.

"But our stuff—"

"Kiera will take it back to the Common Room."

"It's too much—she'll drop it!" Images of ruined books and notes ran though Scorpius's mind as Hal dragged Scorpius up one of the dungeon's spiral staircases

"Then she'll pick it up again. She'll levitate the lot of it if she has to." Hal paused and smiled. "Though, you're right. She drops everything. Hope you haven't got anything breakable in your bag."

"But—my cauldron—"

"—Is made of iron."

"The ink bottles, my notes—" Scorpius turned back.

"Forget them," Hal said. "She'll make a mess. We'll clean it up. Do you _want_ to go back in that room now?"

Scorpius didn't. He didn't want to go back to the DADA classroom ever again. Taking a deep breath, he started up the staircase again. When he reached the top, he hesitated. He didn't know which way to turn.

"Where are we going, Hal?"

"I dunno. Where would _you_ go if you wanted to cut class? Where _do_ you go when you want to be alone? You disappear often enough."

Scorpius usually went for a walk after DADA, though now he stayed as far away from Hogwarts's perimeter as possible. Today, however, it had been pouring. The trails were likely to be reduced to mud-slicks. Where else could they go? Where would they be alone, hidden away from the other students and teachers?

"The Owlrey."

"What?"

"We can go to the Owlrey," Scorpius said, trudging towards the likeliest staircase. "After class, everyone else will be in the Common Room . . . or at Quiddich practice, or in the library. No one will be posting letters until tonight."

"And no one is likely to hang around there."

"Too cold."

Hal laughed curtly. "I was thinking—too smelly," he said. "All these wizards and the place still stinks. You'd think that they'd go up there and _Scourgify_ the place every once and a while . . ."

"You'd think." Although he felt faint, Scorpius forced himself to smile. When the staircase began to move, he clung to the railing until it had stopped—and didn't let go until his head ceased spinning. Then, the boys began picking their way upwards again.

When they stepped outside, Scorpius felt the cool drizzle on his face. He saw the mountains shrouded in mist and the fog drifting over the Forbidden Forest. The landscape was beautiful today, despite its gloom. Entering the Owlery, Hal exclaimed with delight. Fortune was in their favor: the floor had been strewn with clean straw. Both boys slid down the wall in a corner that protected them from the wind and damp air.

Scorpius shivered as Hal busied himself with the little grey owl that had flown over as soon as they'd sat down. For a long time, the burly boy simply murmured soothing words to his bird, who sensed Scorpius's tension. They were all on edge. Finally, Hal broke their silence.

"Is it true?"

"What?"

"Do you think you're going to be the next Dark Lord?" Hal glanced at Scorpius.

"No!" Scorpius blanched and put his hand over his mouth.

"Aw, no, Scorp, don't do that! Lean out a window or something!"

Scorpius did, and after a few moments the rain and breeze helped. His hair was plastered to his forehead.

"Are you afraid of magic?" came the voice from behind him.

Another of Hal's questions. Scorpius could tell he was in for an all-out Hal-Dursley-style interrogation and braced himself for it. It was high time they started talking—_really talking_—again.

"Yes, Hal. Professor d'Eath is right. I'm terrified. I don't _want_ to cast a spell. I—" He hesitated, letting the drizzle hit his face for a few more moments. Then, he pushed the wet hair out of his eyes and turned back to Hal. "I don't want to hurt anyone. Ever."

"Good Caspian," Hal said. He was holding a piece of straw out to the little owl, and after a moment it took the bait and worried it in his beak. "Care to give him a snack, Scorpius? You're making him nervous."

Scorpius nodded and fed the bird. His action attracted the attention of the two owls he liked to use to carry letters home. Noticing their hopeful glances, Hal handed his friend two more treats.

"Can't always help it, though, can we? Hurting folks?" he said, still not meeting his friend's eye.

Scorpius concentrated on the brown owls who'd flown over to him. The cranky one took the treat and retreated to a perch in a corner of the tower, but the friendlier one settled down on Scorpius's shoulder.

"Is it because of the War that you're afraid?"

"Yes. No. I—" Scorpius wasn't sure how to answer. He had finally made friends—sort of—and he was sure that, if he admitted the truth, Hal would judge him for it. Then again, if he didn't tell Hal now, he was bound to find out sooner or later. He bit his lip, weighed his options. Finally, he answered.

"Yes, Hal. Yes, it's because of the War. It's because of my father and the War. My whole family and the wars—both of them. They were—all—on the wrong side. They were Death Eaters."

Hal was engrossed, watching the rain falling outside the Owlery's crumbling door.

"Hal, my father was a _Death Eater_."

Hal still didn't respond. Scorpius had just made a humiliating confession, and his friend hadn't even reacted.

Scorpius's voice grew tight. "My father was a Death Eater," he repeated. "My grandfather was a Death Eater. My grandmother—well, she wasn't a Death Eater, but to all the world she might as well've been. My aunt was one of the worst of them all. And the Dark Lord used our home as his _campaign headquarters_!"

Again, there was a long silence. All Scorpius could hear was the cooing of the owls and the sound of the rain on the copper roof.

"You're not even listening!" Scorpius jumped up, and the brown owl tumbled off his shoulder. The bird flapped its wings and flew awkwardly to one of the rafters. Once it settled there, it looked at Scorpius reproachfully.

"I'm listening." Hal said. "Do you want me to quote you? Your father was a Death Eater . . . your grandfather was a Death Eater—"

"That's enough." Scorpius sighed. "So—you _were_ listening. But—you didn't do anything."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I was thinking. Your dad helped me and Pop. Why would a Death Eater do that?"

"He's _not_ a Death Eater—not anymore." Scorpius clenched his fist. Everyone always _assumed _things about his father. They never observed what he actually _did_.

"Are you a Death Eater, Scorpius?" Hal looked up.

"No!"

"Well, why aren't you? Why isn't your father?"

"Because it's wrong. Because he's—sorry."

Hal leaned his head against the stone wall, shutting his eyes. "It seems, Scorp, that both our parents were on the wrong side. Yours _tried_ to beat Harry Potter here—and mine _did _beat Harry Potter back home. Every chance he got. For seventeen years. Pop's his cousin, you see. His evil cousin, you might even say." He sighed. "My dad's sorry, too. For the record."

Scorpius's head reeled. _Nothing_ about the congenial Dudley Dursley had suggested a bully—certainly not one who'd spend almost two decades tormenting his own cousin. Of course, nothing about Scorpius's father had ever seemed to suggest a bully, either—at least not to his son. All he saw was his father—a tired, tortured, and remorseful man who put every ounce of energy he had into his family and his attempts to make amends.

For a long time, the two boys said nothing. Hal threw treats, one after another, at the owls, who hooted with joy, catching them mid-air. Scorpius went from window to window, looking anywhere but at his friend. He didn't run away this time, though. It was as if a weight had lifted—he'd told Hal what his family was, and Hal didn't hate him for it. They were—in a sense—struggling with the same things. Scorpius wondered how, when Hal knew his father had been so terrible, he never seemed concerned that he would be a prat and a bully himself.

When Hal finally ran out of treats, he brushed the crumbs off his hands and rose.

"We should be going now," he said. "Or we'll miss dinner."

"Can't have that, can we?"

"God forbid."

As they headed towards the door to the tower, the burly boy put his hand on Scorpius's shoulder. He studied his friend, not unlike Professor d'Eath had just a few hours before. Finally, he let go.

"He's right, you know. Professor d'Eath. He was paying you a compliment. You're _not_ the stuff that Dark Lords are made of. You've got a conscience."

Grimacing, Hal wiped his hand on the wet stone wall.

"You've also got owl shit on your robe. Let's get out of here."

As Scorpius walked along the battlements, he noticed that the rain had stopped, the fog over the Forbidden Forest had dissipated, and a single beam of light had broken through the clouds.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: **The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: **Many thanks to my beta, ladyoftheknightley. The properties of ash wood wands come from a site called DragonOak, where you can buy just about any kind of wand you wish.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.

**52 WEEKS COMPULSORY PROMPTS: **Rain, cold.


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